Last Round
by Ian Otter
Summary: The Battle of Actium is over. While Sergeant Moss Shen was able to survive the horrors of a full-scale Covenant invasion, many others… weren't. With his friends dead and his family gone, Moss is faced with his hardest battle yet: the one against himself. Does he have it within him to fight one more round? (Sequel to Missing in Action)
1. Prologue

Introduction:

Hello and welcome to the story. As evident by the summary, this is a direct sequel to _Missing in Action_, so it is recommended that you have read that one before reading this one. With that being said, at about 208k words of story content, it is a very long story and I realize not everyone has the time for such a thing, so I've tried to write this one in such a way that prior knowledge of _MIA_ is not required.

This story is going to be very different from all my other stories. The focus of my stories have always been very action packed, focusing on the fights and the battles of the Human-Covenant War. This one does not. As such, there will be absolute no firefights in this story. Instead, the goal of this story is to explore the main character's (Sergeant Moss Shen) emotional and psychological state in the aftermath of _MIA_. I'm going to try to avoid making this an angst story, but unfortunately I can make no promises.

At any case, because of this narrow focus, this story will be short in length, with very short chapters. There are only six chapters, a prologue, and an epilogue planned, with each chapter not exceeding 7000 words. Again, not something I've really done before, so I'm curious to see how it turns out.

Anyways, I hope you guys enjoy!

* * *

**Prologue**

**UNSC**_** Tranquility **_**(AH-31), High Orbit, Actium  
May 6, 2545 (Standard Military Calendar)  
2622 Juliet (Local Time)**

_**(Day 1 of the Battle of Actium)**_

The flames of war once again lit up the dark void of the galaxy as yet another crown jewel of the human empire was defiled by the endless reach of the Covenant war machine. This time it was Actium, a strategic military planet and an Inner Colony at that. Despite the UNSC's best efforts, it was rapidly turning out that no colony was outside of the grasp of the alien conglomerate known as the Covenant, and that nowhere was safe. It just went to show how badly mankind was losing against the alien invaders: if you had told Lieutenant Commander Anneliese Gamelin a few years ago that even the Inner Colonies would have become targets, she would have laughed. After all, the Inner Colonies were rapidly becoming some of mankind's best defended fortresses, boasting some of the strongest defenses humanity could create.

Anneliese wasn't laughing now though, as she made her rounds, checking up on her patients. With this being her... seventh invasion she had lived through, Anneliese by now knew exactly what to expect: lots and lots of casualties.

Hundreds upon hundreds of Marines, Sailors, and civilians were already aboard this hospital ship, the UNSC _Tranquility_, and hundreds more were arriving every hour. Nearly twenty-four hours had passed since the Covenant first set foot on the surface of Actium, and battlefield triage was in full effect, so most of her patients were either "delayed" or "immediate."

Except for this one. Patient 73173AB.

Anneliese frowned as she considered his file once more. This patient was unusual in many ways. For starters, he was a Soldier. As in, a member of the UNSC Army. Wounded Soldiers arriving on a Navy hospital ship wasn't unheard of, but it was a bit unusual. For record keeping and generally because their area of operations rarely overlapped, Army Soldiers were generally sent to Army field hospitals or Air Force medical heavy-lift air ambulances. Not Navy or Marine Corps ones. So, there was that.

The second unusual thing about this patient was that he should have never been evacuated in the first place. The corpsmen who had brought this patient aboard in the first place had conducted a quick scan of this man's injuries, and the list was astounding. Fractured forearms, gunshot wound to the left foot which had gotten infected due to improper treatment, bruised ribs and sternum, blown out eardrums, hypothermia, and, not to mention, _a ruptured brain aneurysm_, were only _some _of his injuries.

As a medical doctor, Anneliese's goal was to try and save the life of each and every single one of her patients that came across her operating table. Neither of her parents had been doctors themselves, but they had nevertheless instilled the idea into their children that all lives were precious, and that everyone, with no exceptions, deserved a chance to _live_.

However, as a military officer, Anneliese had learned that sometimes, people needed to be sacrificed for the greater good. That is, if the loss of one life could save the lives of two other people, than it was worth it in the end.

Personally, Anneliese had never liked that concept. The road to hell was paved with good intentions and plus, the "needs of the many" always struck her as a justification a military dictator would use before initiating a coup or a random genocide.

But, unfortunately, the Covenant had done an excellent job of disabusing her of that notion. Which is why if she had been the corpsman on the ground preparing patient 73173AB for evacuation, she would have labelled him as "expectant," and left him there to go treat other patients.

Of course, that led to the _last_ unusual thing about this man...

At the same time patient 73173AB had arrived within her area of responsibility, she had received a direct order, not from her commanding officer, but Ambracia System FLEETCOM headquarters. The order was simple: do whatever she had to make sure patient 73173AB survived. Knowing how limited her supplies were onboard, Anneliese had naturally protested. But, much to her surprised, she had been overruled –

By Admiral Lukas Spaatz himself, commander and admiral in charge of the entire system.

Anneliese had no idea why the good Admiral had felt the need to personally intervene, but one thing was very clear to her: whoever this Soldier was, he clearly had some friends in some very high places. And thus, if she valued her current position, she had better do exactly as she was told.

Which is why she was here, inside one of the _Tranquility's_ operating rooms, doing her best to save the life of a doomed man.

"Patient's vitals are holding steady Doctor," one of her nurses reported. "Patient has been sedated as best as possible under these circumstances."

Anneliese absentmindedly nodded as she studied the patient's computed tomography scans one last time. "Very good Corpsman. Continue to monitor the patient; let me know the moment his vitals begin to fluctuate."

"Yes Doctor."

Anneliese drummed her fingers against her chin before letting out a sigh. Well, everything and everyone was about as ready as they could be. It was time to begin. She cleared her throat.

"Alright, ladies and gentlemen!" she announced to the room at large. "Before we begin, let's review! Patient is a nineteen year old Asian male, about one hundred and seventy centimeters tall, roughly seventy-four kilos in weight. Patient had a fusiform aneurysm located near the junction of the left lateral internal carotid artery and the anterior cerebral artery, which has since ruptured and now the patient is suffering from a subarachnoid hemorrhage. What we are attempting today is an artery occlusion, followed by a superficial temporal artery to middle cerebral artery bypass via craniotomy. That should be enough to stabilize the patient long enough for us to treat his other injuries. Are there any questions?"

She glanced around the room, look at each one of her staff she had selected for this operation for any objections or any other input. There was none, not even a question of why they were attempting to save this man's life when there were so many other patients that needed tending to. Part of the reason why Anneliese had selected these individuals was because she knew that once the decision was made, these corpsmen would have put aside any doubts they may or may not have had, and do their very best to do what they did best: save lives. And at the moment, that was all Anneliese needed.

Anneliese inhaled, then slowly exhaled. There was no point denying it: she was feeling slightly apprehensive. How could she not? Anneliese was not a brain surgeon. As a general surgeon, she was capable of performing quite a wide variety of operations, but brain surgery simply wasn't one of her disciplinaries. Fortunately, that's what machines were for.

"Alright then," Anneliese finally said. "Let's begin. Al-Zahrawi? Execute program forty-seven Bravo."

"Yes Doctor," the operating room's assigned AI replied, and Anneliese stepped back as a device slowly began lowering from the ceiling. Once it was in place, Anneliese carefully pushed it forward until it was connected to the patient's head.

"Al-Zahrawi: run program," she ordered.

"Affirmative," Al-Zahrawi confirmed and at once, the machine came to life and began working.

"Beginning craniotomy," Anneliese reported to the room at large. "Making incision in scalp. Suction."

A nearby corpsman handed the suction over to Anneliese as blood began leaking out from the surgical cuts the machine was making into the patient's scalp. Angling the suction tube, she began vacuuming away the excess blood to prevent it from obscuring the incision.

"Clips."

Another corpsman handed the surgical clips to her of which she began feeding into the machine as the machine slowly began peeling back the upper epidermis layer of the patient's scalp and pinned it back, exposing the patient's skull. Anneliese watched the process, undisturbed by what she was seeing. After all, in her line of profession, she had seen far worse.

"Beginning incision into the skull."

A loud whine of a saw filled the air as the machine activated a small bone saw and began cutting through the patient's skull. Grounded down bone dust began filling the air.

"Vacuum."

Activating the vacuum, Anneliese calmly cleaned the area. She watched on a nearby screen as the saw began cutting right through the skull and began approaching the brain, and she couldn't help but brace herself, but fortunately, with a precision that only a machine could provide, the saw stopped just shy of actually cutting into brain matter.

The machine quickly made a few more incisions, cutting out a small section of the skull that could be removed.

"Removing bone flap. Tray."

A tray was passed over as the machine carefully removed the bone flap and deposited it into Anneliese's hand, who in turned deposited it on the tray. At once, a small amount of clotted blood from the aneurysm and excess cerebrospinal fluid began leaking from the craniotomy, but one of Anneliese's staff was quick to clean it away, finally exposing the internal injury that had no doubt been plaguing the patient for some time.

To the untrained eye, the injury would have looked rather devastating. However, to Anneliese, she was just glad to see it wasn't as bad as the computed tomography and the magnetic resonance angiogram had initially indicated. She did note the buildup of fluid inside the subarachnoid space, which would have to be dealt with before the craniotomy was closed up again, least it caused hydrocephalus and elevated intracranial pressure.

"Beginning artery occlusion," Anneliese declared.

"Doctor. I'm seeing a slight dip in the patient's blood pressure," one of her staff suddenly warned. "How should we proceed?"

Anneliese paused and stole a glance at the patient's EKG monitor. Sure enough, the patient's blood pressure had dropped by just a few points. Nothing that would necessitate an emergency, however, given how low the patient's blood pressure was to begin with due to the ruptured aneurysm, it was somewhat alarming.

Anneliese stopped what she was doing and considered her options. It was hard to say what had caused the drop in the first place. It could easily have been the result of the aneurysm, but then again, given the multitude of the soldier's _other_ injuries, it could have easily been something else. However, with a craniotomy in the patient's skull and Al-Zahrawi preparing to begin the occlusion of the artery, it wasn't as if Anneliese could simply stop and check.

"Patient's heart rate and blood pressure still fall within tolerable levels," Anneliese finally decided. "We will proceed with occlusion. However, the moment you see the patient's vitals fall even further, inform me immediately."

"Aye aye Doctor."

Anneliese slowly exhaled. "Al-Zahrawi?"

"Yes Doctor?"

"You may proceed."

"Yes Doctor."

As the machine started working once again, Anneliese did her best to keep one eye on the operation, and the other on the monitor. As the machine proceeded to occlude the artery leading to the aneurysm, thus putting an end to the hemorrhaging, Anneliese stole another glance at the monitor. So far, there had been no change in the patient's vitals. Hopefully it would remain that way for the rest of the surgery.

Unfortunately she couldn't continue watching the monitor as Al-Zahrawi began with the artery bypass. She watched as the machine detached a donor artery from its normal position on the scalp and cautiously inserted it above the blocked artery, thus rerouting the blood flow around the ruptured aneurysm and restoring the brain's blood flow to its regular status.

As soon as the bypass was in place and secured, Anneliese let out a mute sigh of relief. That was the hard part. Now all they had to do was bring the hydrocephalus under control and then they could sew the patient up -

"Doctor! EKG is falling and fast! Patient is going into -"

_**EEEEEEEEEE!**_

The terrifying sound of a patient going into cardio arrest filled the air.

"CRASH CRASH CRASH!" the same corpsman from before began yelling.

"CODE BLUE!" Anneliese immediately yelled without hesitation. "Immediate resuscitation team to operating room three! Corpsman Alban, I need the ACRD! Corpsman Wex, prep the defibrillator just in case we need it!"

Her staff began scrambling around to implement her orders. Alban came running up and hurriedly placed an automated cardiopulmonary resuscitation device, or ACRD onto the patient's chest and at Anneliese's nod, activated it. At once, the device began applying chest compressions to her patient's chest, trying to ensure his blood remained flowing.

"Start the clock," Anneliese ordered even though she wasn't sure how much time her patient had. He would have already been having issues with blood flow to his brain due to his aneurysm; a lack of heartbeat was just going to make things so much worse.

The room was silent as the ACRD automatically worked. Thirty compressions to the chest, followed by two gust of air forced into the patient's lungs. Generally speaking, there was less than a ten percent chance CPR alone would be enough to revive a patient that had gone into cardio arrest, but hopefully it would be able to keep him alive until the resuscitation team arrived.

Anneliese kept her eyes glued on the EKG monitor, praying upon praying that she would see a blimp or something. Something to indicate there was some hope of his survival. While she _was_ under orders to try and keep this man alive, it was much more than that: it was always heartbreaking to lose a patient, especially on the operating table, and Anneliese was determined to avoid that at all cost. This was, after all, somebody's son. Someone's brother. Nephew. Cousin. He, just as much as anyone else, deserved another chance to live.

The seconds ticked by and Anneliese couldn't help but bounce from one foot to the other, anxiously waiting to see if there would be a result. What was taking the resuscitation team so long!?

Just as an impulse, Anneliese abruptly bent over by her patient's head.

"Come back to us Sergeant," she whispered into his ear. "Come on Sergeant, you can do it: come back to us."

If Anneliese was being completely honest with herself, she wasn't sure why she did that. While studies had proven that on a subconscious level, unconscious patients, or even those in a coma, were capable of hearing the voices of their loved ones, there was nothing to suggest that mere words would be enough to restart a failing heart.

Yet somehow, it did.

The sound of the EKG monitor suddenly beeping again was the only warning Anneliese had when her patient abruptly gasped, _and opened his eyes_. Her patient frantically looked around, his eyes full of terror, and normally such a sight would cause a wave of sympathy to pass through Anneliese, but at the moment she was too distracted to notice as she was too busy trying to keep her patient on the table as he tried to get up _while the operating machine was still stuck inside his brain._

"Doctor, patient's heart rate is elevated and his epinephrine levels are rapidly increasing: he's panicking!" someone yelled.

"You don't say!?" Anneliese couldn't help but sarcastically yell back. "Grab his torso! Hold him down!"

Her staff immediately ran up and grabbed her patient by his limbs, trying to keep him down, but doing so only cause her patient to fight back even harder.

"Sergeant! My name is Doctor Gamelin! We're trying to help you but you need to calm down!" Anneliese yelled at her patient, hoping her words would help once more, but this time her patient was too far gone for him to notice.

"Doctor, should we sedate him!?"

"NO!" Anneliese immediately screamed. "Any more sedatives, and it's just going to stop his heart again! Sergeant! We need you to _CALM DOWN!"_

Then, all of a sudden, her patient proceeded to do just that.

Her patient abruptly went limp, and Anneliese hurriedly eased him back onto the operating table before glancing at her staff to make sure none of them had sedated him, contrary to her orders. Clearly none had as they were all too busy trying to get her patient back onto the table and a position that would not further aggravate his various other injuries.

"Heart rate is stabilizing," one of her staff reported. "Epinephrine levels decreasing. I think he passed out Doctor."

Anneliese nodded as she slowly let out a sigh of relief.

"Let's get him sewn up and patched up," she ordered. "Just in case he wakes up again.

"Yes Doctor."

Her staff scrambled around to finish their task so they could close off the patient's brain and not worry about their patient accidently hurting himself if he were to suddenly wake up again, leaving Anneliese to catch her breath. Her veins were flooded with adrenaline and her brow was covered in sweat. That had been a close one.

"Welcome back to the land of the living, Sergeant Moss Shen," Anneliese murmured, before turning back to her staff. "Alright ladies and gentlemen, let's get back to work."

**XXX**

Her patient would end up crashing three more times through the night before finally stabilizing.

* * *

(Note: Something I'm trying in this story is removing my footnotes as I've had a couple of readers in the past complain about them. We'll see how it turns out.)

1\. UNSC _Tranquility _(AH-31)_: _I debated whether or not I wanted hospital ships to belong to the Air Force or the Navy. In real life, hospital ships of course belong to the Navy as they are oceangoing vessels, however, that would run contrary to the way I had divided the responsibilities of both the UNSC Navy and the Air Force in my stories, with the Navy being responsible for warships and the Air Force being responsible for logistical ships (of which I feel a hospital ship is a type of.)

In the end, I kind of took the easy route and just said that both the Navy and the Air Force have their own hospital ships. This chapter however takes place aboard a naval hospital ship because, well, it was easier to think up of a name and plus, if you guys remember, as mentioned at the end of _Battle: Actium_ chapter 35, the ship that Moss ended up crash landing into was a naval destroyer, and thus it would have been easier for that crew to transfer him to another naval ship.

2\. The A.I. Al-Zahrawi is named after Abū al-Qāsim Khalaf ibn al-'Abbās al-Zahrāwī al-Ansari, who was an Arabic surgeon who lived in the Middle Ages from about 936 to 1013 AD. He's considered to be one of the greatest, if not the greatest, surgeons to have lived during the Middle Ages, and is also considered to be one of the "Fathers of Surgery."

3\. The scene where Moss is crashing, you can sort of see it from his perspective near the end of chapter 15 of _Missing in Action._

Author's Notes

Well, this was a hard chapter to write because, surprise surprise, I am not a surgeon, much less a brain surgeon. Because of that, I didn't have a clue what I was doing. I had to do a lot of research just to get some of the procedures and terminology right, but even then, I'm pretty sure ninety percent of this chapter is _wrong_. So, if there happens to be any real medical doctors reading this, I do apologize, but let's be completely honest: ninety-nine percent of the stuff I depict in my stories are wrong. Not sure why I wanted or even tried to make this one different, but here we are. Please note that I was definitely throwing out as many technical terms as possible in order to make my doctor sound smart, but given I don't know how most of them are supposed to be used in a sentence, no doubt it will sound like nothing more than technobabble to anyone who actually knows anything about brain surgery.

A quick glossary of terms for anyone that's interested. Note: these definitions, as well as most of the terminology used in this chapter, are blatantly stolen from this website (FF doesn't allow links so simply remove the space between the webpage and the html.)

(Note: the ACRD is not a real acronym, but the device, an automated cardiopulmonary resuscitation device, is. I looked online to see if there was a name for them, and the closest I could find was "AutoPulse," but that's apparently the name for a specific brand of automated CPR device, one that's also outdated so I didn't want to use the name.)

Glossary of Terms

**aneurysm: **a bulge or weakening of an arterial wall.

**computed tomography:**or(CT) scan is a noninvasive X-ray to view the anatomical structures within the brain and to detect blood in or around the brain. A CT angiography (CTA) involves the injection of contrast into the blood stream to view the arteries of the brain. This was formerly known as a computerized axial tomography scan or more commonly, a CAT scan.

**craniotomy: **surgical opening in the skull.

**fusiform: **a type of aneurysm that bulges in all directions and has no distinct neck

**hydrocephalus: **a condition which results in a buildup of cerebrospinal fluid inside the brain, causing an increased pressure inside the skull. Depending on its severity, it can cause anywhere between headaches to mental impairment

**magnetic resonance imaging: **or(MRI) scan is a noninvasive test that uses a magnetic field and radio-frequency waves to give a detailed view of the soft tissues of the brain. An MRA (Magnetic Resonance Angiogram) involves the injection of contrast into the blood stream to examine the blood vessels in addition to structures of the brain.

**occlusion: **the blockage or closing of a blood vessel or hollow organ

**subarachnoid hemorrhage (SAH): **bleeding in the space between the brain and skull; may cause a stroke.

**superficial temporal artery to middle cerebral artery: **more commonly referred to as a "STA-MCA," this is basically a method of treating an aneurysm that involves detaching a donor artery from its normal position on the scalp and connect it above the blocked artery inside the skull

**triage: **as part of the triage system, there are usually four levels with corresponding color codes in order to determine the priority of a patients' treatment. In the US military, they are as follows (from lowest to highest):

\- **(Green) Minimal:** patient can wait to receive medical attention until all other higher priority patients have been stabilized and evacuated.

\- **(Yellow) Delayed: **patient requires medical attention within six hours. The patient's injuries are potentially life-threatening, but can still wait until higher priority patients have been stabilized and evacuated.

\- **(Red) Immediate: **patient requires immediate medical attention. Patients are to treated and evacuated first

\- **(Black) Expectant: **patient is not expected to survive long enough to reach higher medical support, at least not without compromising the treatment of other levels of patients. Patients are to wait to be treated until all other "immediate" and "delayed" patients have been stabilized and evacuated though, depending on what resources remain, that may not be possible


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

**Fort Glazunov, Katara Region, Skopje  
October 12, 2545 (Standard Military Calendar)  
0903 Juliet (Local Time)**

_**(Six Months Later)**_

_"...I just don't understand: why do you need to go back?"_

Sergeant Moss Shen resisted the urge to sigh. "Mom, we talked about this. Many times, in fact. Bottom line is, when I enlisted, I agreed to serve for _four_ years. Including the time I spent in training, I've only been in for _one_. I still have three years left on my contract which I need to fulfill, otherwise, I'll be going AWOL and thus, breaking _the law_."

_"But you've been through so much already,"_ his mom insisted. _"You've already fought in two battles, and you were _**really**_ badly wounded. Haven't you done enough? The Army has got millions of soldiers. Why do they still need you? Why can't they let you go early?"_

This time, Moss couldn't stop himself from sighing.

"Mom, that's not how things work," Moss said, doing his best to keep his temper in check as he ran his hand through his hair, barely noticing the feeling of the scars that marked his scalp. "And it doesn't matter if I was wounded or not. If the Army allowed all of their wounded soldiers to not return to service, even if they were capable, then the Army would have only a handful of soldiers left to do all the fighting. And how fair would that be?"

_"I don't care about fairness,"_ his mom stubbornly insisted.

"Mom, you're being incredibly selfish right now."

_"I don't care if I'm being selfish. _**You**_ are _**my**_ son, and I want you to be alive and well. I just don't understand: why do you need to go back? Your sister didn't and she wasn't even hurt."_

"That's because she transferred over to the reserves," Moss explained with strained patience. "She's still part of the Navy and she can technically be activated once more at any time. For now though, she's allowed to serve from home."

_"Then why couldn't you do the same thing?"_

Moss felt like throttling someone.

"Mom, put dad on the phone," was all he said instead.

_"Moss, we're not done talking about this!"_

"I know, just... mom, I'm about to reach the base and once I get there, I'm going to have to hang up. Put dad on the phone before I get there. Please."

_"Fine,"_ his mom begrudgingly said. _"But I'm not going to forget about this conversation."_

"You never do," Moss darkly muttered under his breath.

_"Here's your dad."_

_"Hi son. Just so you know, I agree with your mother. I don't understand why you needed to go back."_

Moss sighed. "Dad, I am not going over this again, okay? I've said everything I needed to say and it didn't convince either of you, so clearly it never will. Just... give it up, will you?"

_"We're never going to give it up,"_ his dad insisted. _"You are our son, and we want what's best for you."_

Moss couldn't help but roll his eyes at that.

"Dad, I'm here at the gate," was all he said. Moss waved at the MP manning the gate and then pointed at his earpiece. The MP nodded, and then gestured for Moss to take his time. "I got to go. I love you. And tell mom I love her too, will you?"

_"Oh, hang on, I'll give you to her. Honey!"_

"No, you don't need to do that!" Moss frantically said, but it was too late

_"Moss, I love you!"_ his mom said and Moss sighed once more_. "Stay safe!"_

"I will," Moss promised. "I got to go. Love you. Bye."

He quickly hung up before his parents could say anymore and growled.

"Your girl man?" the MP asked with a laugh.

"No," Moss replied as he dug through his pockets for his ID. "My parents. They mean well, but sometimes they get you so angry you just want to... I dunno, punch a baby or something, you know?"

He handed his ID over, expecting the MP to smile and nodded, but instead, all the MP did was shake his head.

"Not really," he said as he scanned Moss' ID. "Lost my parents to the Covenant back in 2525 when they invaded Harvest. Been a ward of the state ever since then. Don't really remember my parents."

Guilt immediately flooded Moss' veins as he stared at the MP in horror.

"Ah shit," he muttered. "Dude, I'm sorry, I didn't -"

The guard shook his head.

"Don't worry about it man," the MP lightly said. "You didn't know. You're good to go by the way. Welcome back to Fort Glazunov, Sergeant."

The MP handed Moss back his ID and gestured for the other guards to allow him through. Moss carefully passed through the gates, his cheeks burning with shame and embarrassment. There he was, complaining about his parents when his audience probably would have given everything to hear his parents talk to him like that. It certainly put things in perspective, and at that moment, Moss swore to be careful about what he said. In fact, it was probably better if he just stopped complaining entirely, as his life was probably nowhere near as bad as everyone else's. After all, his family was still fully intact and he was still breathing unlike -

Moss stopped himself before he could go down that train of thought. That was the last thing he needed. First day back and he was already thinking about... that.

Still, it was a bit difficult to _not_ think about it. Being back on this base was bringing back all sorts of memories to Moss from before. He couldn't help it. Despite everything, the base looked almost identical to how it was when Moss had arrived for the very first time. The buildings were all the same color, the lawn looked as pristine as ever, and even the soldiers marching across the parade ground looked the same. The only thing that was different was the flag that hung on the parade ground flagpole. No longer did it fly the jackalope insignia of the 222nd Airborne Division. Instead, it had been replaced by the winged Theban helmet of the 27th Airborne Group. Which made sense as the 222nd had been disbanded. After suffering from too many casualties after...

Moss' throat suddenly felt tight and his eyes were itching. Must have been the pollen in the air. It was spring on this side of the planet after all. Nevertheless, Moss found himself suddenly craving for a cigarette which was weird as he hadn't had one since he had woken from his coma six months ago...

Fortunately, this was a military base, so it didn't take him long to locate a fellow smoker standing just outside the nearest building. Walking up to the woman, Moss glanced at her rank insignia.

"Hey Sergeant?" he called out and the woman turned around. "You mind if I bum a smoke off you?"

"Oh sure," the woman said, pulling a cigarette out from behind her ear where she had one tucked.

"Thanks," Moss said, sticking the cigarette into his mouth, then nodding as the woman pulled out a lighter and lit it for him.

Taking a drag, Moss leaned his head back and enjoyed his first cigarette in months.

"I'm Sergeant Katrina Restrepo by the way," the woman said, extending her hand. Moving his cigarette to his left hand, Moss took it and shook it.

"Sergeant Moss Shen," he replied. "Nice to meet you."

"Yeah. Likewise."

Introductions over, Moss started to turn back to his cigarette, but then noticed Restrepo was staring at his right shoulder. At first, he couldn't figure out what she was staring at, but then he abruptly remembered he was wearing all of his patches on this uniform -

\- including the patch of the division he had last deployed with.

Moss felt a sinking sensation deep within his gut, and hurried began smoking his cigarette as fast as he could, but before he could get away, Restrepo asked the one question he knew she was going to ask: "So. 222nd, huh? You fight on Actium?"

Moss slowly removed the cigarette from his mouth.

"Yeah," he reluctantly admitted, and found he couldn't help but stare at the ground as he said it.

"Huh," Restrepo replied. "Me too. I was 53rd Armored though."

Despite himself, Moss looked up. "You were a DAT?"

"Sort of," Restrepo said between drags. "I was a TWAT for the most part. You know - tanker without a tank?"

For some reason, the way Restrepo said that triggered a memory in Moss' brain, and he couldn't help but suddenly feel like this was the second time he was meeting Restrepo. Like they had run into each other once before. But unfortunately, he just couldn't place where.

"It was one hell of a fucking campaign, wasn't it?" Restrepo was saying in the meantime. "Real fucking brutal."

Moss felt his cheeks beginning to burn once more as he struggled to think of a way to respond to that. At this point, Moss really wasn't all that interested in continuing the conversation, but he couldn't figure out how to end it without being rude and he didn't want to just walk away.

"I... wouldn't know," he finally admitted. "I got taken out the first day of the battle."

He cautiously looked up to see how Restrepo would react to his confession, only to see her shrugging.

"Fuck. So did I," she casually said. "Was doing a short range patrol when I got hit by shrapnel in the back of the leg and in my lower back." She turned around and pointed at a spot just to the left of her spine. "Three more centimeters to the right, and it would have left me crippled for life. Crazy, huh?"

Moss nodded, and debated telling her about his own injuries. But then, she might ask how he got them and that... well, partly he wasn't interested in talking about _that_ but mostly, he wasn't even sure if he had authorization to do so.

Before Moss could make up his mind though, Restrepo suddenly sighed. "Well, as far as things go, I guess I was one of the lucky ones. Most of my battalion ended up dead, leaving me as one of the only survivors. I was formerly of 2-45th Armored Regiment, 1/53," she added. "Now I'm 'Tank Destroyer Troop, 127th Cavalry Squadron, 127th Airborne Brigade.' Hell of a downgrade if you ask me."

"I hear ya," Moss noted. "I was 131st Combat Engineer Battalion, 3/222nd. Now I'm Alpha Company of Special Troops Battalion, 127th Airborne."

Restrepo nodded.

"Well, guess we can only do what we can," she said as she tossed the butt of her cigarette away in a nearby cigarette receptacle. "It was good to meet you Sergeant. See you around, yeah?"

"You too," Moss softly said as she walked away.

Feeling a bit more relaxed now that he was alone, Moss slowly finished off the rest of his cigarette, properly disposing of the butt once he was done, and walked away. He wasn't sure what or where he was supposed to go next. Under normal circumstances, Moss would have gone to the battalion reception building to report in for duty, but then again, that felt like something he only needed to do when he was reporting in for the first time. And it wasn't like it his first time on this base. At the same time, it _was_ his first time being back on a military base, _any_ military base, in several months so perhaps he did need to report in to his CO?

At any case, before Moss could properly make up his mind, the decision was made for him.

"SERGEANT SHEN!"

Moss immediately stiffened at the sound of his commanding officer's voice and he slowly turned around. There, limping up to him, was his company commander, _Captain_ James Lancelot.

"Captain!" Moss barked out as he snapped to attention and fired off a salute.

"Sergeant," Lancelot greeted as he returned the salute. "Walk with me."

Without another word, Lancelot continued to hobble down the path, leaving Moss to catch up. Falling in step behind Lancelot, Moss carefully watched as he walked along, leaning heavily on his cane. Moss never did find out what had happened to Lancelot but whatever it was, it had clearly injured him so badly, to the point he still needed a cane to walk around with, even after this many months. It just went to show: Moss had gotten off easy.

"First off Sergeant: welcome back," Lancelot said. Despite his appearance, his voice remained as strong as ever.

"Thank you, sir," Moss replied. "Oh, and congratulations on your promotion, sir. If you don't mind me saying, I can't think of a Soldier more deserving than you, sir."

"Thanks," Lancelot grunted. "Coming from you, that means a lot."

Moss really doubted that but he wasn't about to argue the point.

"How you doing by the way?" Lancelot continued.

Moss thought back to all the sleepless nights he had, even when he was back at his parents' house, the result of the many nightmares he'd been having. He thought about mentioning them, but one look at Lancelot's cane, and Moss knew Lancelot already had far too many problems for Moss to try and pile more on.

"I'm fine, sir," Moss simply replied.

"And how was your leave?"

Moss thought back to the all the physical therapy he'd been doing in the last few months, even when he had been on leave, just to relearn some basic stuff like figuring out how to talk without stuttering. As it turned out, having a few blood vessels burst inside one's brain could cause more than just physical damage, it could cause issues with stuff like brain damage. It had been frustrating, trying to relearn all this stuff he had already mastered when he was four.

"It was fine, sir," Moss said.

Lancelot stopped and fixed him with a hard gaze.

"You sure?" he asked, as if he somehow knew Moss was being less than honest with him.

Moss quickly nodded his head.

"Yes, sir," he said and, because Lancelot still didn't seem all that convinced, he added, "I'm ready and eager to get back to work again, sir."

Lancelot didn't say anything and instead, continued to stare at Moss. After a few moments of awkward silence, Moss started to get nervous. Did Lancelot somehow know...?

Moss took a deep breath, but before he could say or do anything stupid, Lancelot finally turned away, causing Moss to let out a mute sigh of relief.

"That's good to hear Sergeant," he said as he resumed walking. "Good to hear. Unfortunately, that's going to have to wait. Reason I call you over here was more administrative than anything."

"And what would that be, sir?" Moss asked, relieved they were moving onto more mundane things. He really shouldn't have been.

"Psychiatrist."

That stopped Moss short.

"Excuse me, sir?" he stammered, the words tumbling out of his mouth.

"You need to see a psychiatrist." Lancelot immediately held up his hand to preemptively stop any arguments. "I know, I know, you're perfectly fine, you don't need to see some damn shrink, blah, blah, blah, _blah_. Save your excuses _and_ your arguments Sergeant, I've heard it all before already. Let's be clear here: this isn't because of you, this is because of our new battalion commander. She wants all her troops under her command to have been seen and cleared by a psychiatrist for active duty before we ultimately find ourselves thrown into the sandbox once more. Everyone in the battalion _has_ to do it; no exceptions. You were supposed to have seen one a couple of months ago before you went on leave, but for some reason, you accidently slipped through the cracks."

"Seems to happen a lot with me," Moss mumbled. "After all, how many Soldiers from Earth accidentally get assigned to a Mamorian unit?"

"Yeah. And then there was Actium, where you and your squad completely disappeared off my scopes."

Moss looked up sharply at that, only to see Lancelot shaking his head.

"Don't worry Sergeant, I'm not asking you what happened," he assured him. "I already tried to do some digging of my own, only to get a visit in the middle of the night from a 'friendly' Army intelligence officer, 'politely' telling me to stop. Whatever you and your squad were up to that day, it has ONI written all over it and I know better than to touch that shit with a seven meter long pole."

"Point is," Lancelot continued, "doc you're going to see is a certain Colonel Grant Russell. His office is in the hospital building, recovery wing, office three oh three. You have an appointment scheduled for next week at zero nine hundred hours, but in the future, you'll be able to schedule your own appointments."

"Try to keep in mind Sergeant, you're not being punished for anything," Lancelot added. "This is just a routine thing. However, do note that everything you say to Doctor Russell will be off the record. The only people who will have access to that stuff will be you and Doc Russell. So... if you have anything bothering you... anything you want to get off your chest... that would be the time to do it."

Moss couldn't help but shuffle nervously as Lancelot stared at him with what seemed like a knowing expression. Lancelot couldn't have known.

Could he?

"However," Lancelot finished, "if you don't have anything to say, then just do whatever the fuck the Doc tells you to do so you can get cleared for duty. Based on what I'm hearing, Command has got an unusual mission for this brigade, a mission that will require a _lot_ of training. And I'd like to hit the ground running as fast as possible."

Despite himself, Moss couldn't help but glance at Lancelot's cane at that. Lancelot followed his gaze and snorted.

"Well, metaphorically speaking of course," he said, tapping the bottom of his cane against his foot.

Moss sighed. By the sounds of it, he had no choice in this matter. The joys of being at the bottom of the totem pole, he supposed. "Yes, sir."

"Good. In the meantime, I have an assignment for you. It's going to be a long term thing and it might be a little boring, but given your organization skills, I think you're the best man for it."

Moss glanced at Lancelot, curious. "And what would that be, sir?"

"I don't know if you know this, but we're not scheduled to start getting replacements until next month. Other divisions have priority. One of the personnel we're missing is a company armorer, which is a problem because the company small arms room is one giant clusterfuck. And I got the battalion supply sergeant riding my ass, demanded I give him an inventory of everything we got, and everything we don't, so he can start ordering replacement shit. You interested?"

"I'm... not a certified small arms armorer, sir," Moss pointed out.

"Yeah, well, you're not exactly going to be doing too many repairs. Priority is to get an inventory of what we have, and what we need. If, in a month from now, we still don't have a new armorer, then we can start talking about getting the shit we have fixed, at which point, I can talk to S-1 and put you through some quick courses. Sound good?"

Moss made a show of thinking it over but truth be told, he was kind of interested. The armory was generally more of a solitary thing, and right now, Moss really didn't want to have to answer the inevitable questions about what happened to him on Actium, and how everyone else had... died.

"I'll do it, sir," Moss finally said.

"Good. We'll get you access to the armory. I'll have Sergeant Stalgis show you around after PT tomorrow. In the meantime, for the rest of today, get yourself situated and resettled in." Lancelot nodded at the duffle bag Moss had been carrying around this entire time. "Might want to go ahead and put your stuff away."

Moss knew a dismissal when he heard one.

"Roger that, sir," he barked and started to turn away when a thought occurred to him. "Uh..., sir? Am I still billeted in the same dorm room?"

"Ah, yeah, that reminds me. Yeah, _you_ are in the same room as far as I remember, however, we figured you didn't want to be rooming with the shitty E-1's and E-2's, once they start coming in. So, I think your new roommate is Sergeant Julian Perez. You know him, right?"

Moss nodded. Julian Perez, or Fish as everyone called him, was one of the veterans of the 222nd, having been assigned to the division before it had been deployed to Newsaka. Despite him having served with 1st Squad and Moss in 2nd, they had always gotten along fairly well and Moss couldn't imagine that having changed in the intervening time period.

"Good," Lancelot grunted. "I still don't understand why the fuck everyone needs a roommate given that this fucking unit is now a fourth of the size it once was, and there should be enough room for everyone to get a dorm of their own, but the brigade commander likes the idea of two to a room I guess. Shows you how out of fucking touch with reality he is I suppose. Let's hope he's a better tactician than he is personnel manager."

Moss gave Lancelot a sideward glance at that, not exactly sure how to respond. "Uh... right you are, sir?"

Lancelot jumped, as if he hadn't realized Moss was still standing there.

"Sergeant, you're dismissed," Lancelot commanded. "Go get some food and go enjoy the rest of your day."

"Yes, sir."

With that, Moss turned around and marched away, leaving Lancelot to continue his walk alone.

Cutting across the nearby field, Moss headed to his dorm room building. Fishing out his CAC from his pocket, Moss swiped it through the reader on the side of the door and when it let out a loud buzz, pulled it open and walked inside. Hitting the stairs, Moss lightly jogged all the way up to the fourth floor where he remembered his room as being.

Pausing only long enough to check the names posted by the door to verify he was actually at the right place, Moss inserted his key into the lock and walked inside.

Inside, Moss was immediately struck by a wave of nostalgia. Everything was almost exactly the same way he had left it before leaving for Newsaka. His bed was immaculately made, though his spare duffle bag and a pair of army issued tube socks were sitting on top of the sheets where he had left them after a last minute repacking of his equipment. His alarm clock was sitting upside down on the nightstand because the morning the division had been scheduled to leave, it had woken him up at the appropriate time, but for some reason Moss hadn't been able to turn it off and so, had resorted to banging it against the table a couple of times before it stopped.

Nearby, his computer was still sitting on the desk, his favorite pair of headphones draped across the back of his seat. Moss remembered debating whether or not he had wanted to bring those along, but ultimately had decided against it, which turned out to have been the right decision because while Moss hadn't known at the time, the Newsaka Campaign hadn't allowed for much downtime.

All in all, it was almost like Moss had suddenly been transported back in time to before this mess had all began. He half expected to turn around and see people like Stohl the Mole and Kellogg racing down the hall, raising all kinds of hell. Or Smelley Noelley wandering by, idyllically singing the latest pop song she had heard on the radio under her breath. Or Corporal Shin and... Pip... having yet another push-up competition.

But no. Aside from Kellogg, everyone else had been killed in action or drummed out of the Army, and the clearest sign of that was how empty the walls to Moss' room looked. Moss' old roommate, Specialist Quintus Vox, had been a huge sports fan, and had decorated his side of the dorm with all sorts of posters and banners, filling the room with colors.

But Vox was dead, just like everyone else, having died due to complications with surgery after having taken some shrapnel to the neck on the sixth day of the Newsaka campaign. Perhaps it had been just as well: at least Vox hadn't had to suffer, watching his homeworld of Actium burn like the rest of them had.

At any case, someone had clearly been by to pick up his effects as the walls were now completely barren, leaving the room feeling rather empty and cold.

Moss suddenly found his eyes were very wet, and he quickly ran his sleeve over them. There was no need for that; what happened, happened in the past, and there was no way to change any of that. It was time to man up and move on.

Sniffling, Moss glanced around. Either Fish hadn't moved in yet, or he hadn't bothered unpacking, as his side of the room was completely bare, aside from some linen covering his bed. It kind of sucked as Moss had wanted to talk to him and decide how they were going to divide the room but whatever. There would be plenty of time for that later. In the meantime, Moss needed to unpack.

Walking over to his side of the room, Moss started to toss his duffle bag onto his bed, but managed to stop himself when he noticed there was a small box with a small ribbon that had been tied into a neat little bow sitting on top, just hiding behind his spare duffle bag. It had definitely not been there before Moss had left as Moss wasn't one to bother with bows so curious, he dropped his stuff on the ground and grabbed it. Carefully opening the box, he looked inside.

It was a small cupcake. Strawberry shortcake, one of his favorites.

Wondering where the hell this thing had come from, he carefully placed the cupcake on his desk and turned over the box. A small, handwritten note fell out, and Moss couldn't help but marvel at how old fashioned and quaint it was. However, without even looking, Moss instantly knew who the cupcake was from as he was the only person Moss knew who would do something like this.

'Welcome back Moss,' the note read. '- Fergs.'

Sergeant Harry Ferguson. His old squad leader from Newsaka.

Moss allowed a small grin to grace his face. At least not _all_ of his friends were dead.

At least for now…

* * *

1\. DAT: acronym for "**D**umb-**A**ss **T**anker"

A quick explanation of the characters mentioned here, just in case anyone is curious:

\- Sergeant Katrina Restrepo: this is a character that first showed up in _Missing in Action_, chapter 2, which is where Moss and her first met and which is what Moss is referring to in this chapter.

\- Captain James Lancelot: as mentioned in the chapter, this was Moss' platoon commander who first appeared in _Missing in Action, _chapter 1 and has since been promoted to captain from 1st lieutenant.

\- Stohl the Mole, aka: Specialist Jarid Stohl. He's one of Moss' former squadmate who was first mentioned in chapter 11 of _Missing in Action_, though he doesn't physically appear until _Missing in Action: One-shot: Baptism by Fire_

\- Kellogg, aka: Private First Class Korak Kobani. Again, one of Moss' former squadmates who was first mentioned in chapter 11 of _Missing in Action,_ though he first appears in _Missing in Action: One-shot: Toilet Talks_

\- Smelley Noelley, aka: Noelle Patel. As with the other two aforementioned characters, first mentioned in chapter 11 of _Missing in Action,_ first appearing in _Missing in Action: One-shot: Baptism by Fire_

\- Corporal Shin, aka: Corporal Cynthia Shin. She first appears in the prologue of _Missing in Action_ where she's killed in action. She gets mentioned a couple more times after that, most notably in chapters 3 and 11. She also shows up in the first three one-shots of _MIA._

\- Pip is one of the main characters from _Missing in Action_

\- Specialist Quintus Vox: this character has never appeared in my stories before, and is only briefly mentioned in the character bios chapter for _Missing in Action_. I had thought up of his name when filling out the roster for Moss' squad before the events of _Missing in Action,_ but never could figure out a way to incorporate him into the story.

\- Sergeant Julian "Fish" Perez: this character first appeared in _Missing in Action: One-shot: Baptism by Fire_ and is briefly mentioned by name in _Missing in Action: One-shot: Toilet Talks_

\- Sergeant Harry Ferguson: as mentioned in the chapter, Moss' former squad leader. First appeared in the prologue of _Missing in Action,_ reappears in chapter 16, and again in _Missing in Action: One-shot: Baptism by Fire_

So, like I said, none of this is super important, but just in case anyone was curious where all these people were coming from. As you guys might be able to tell, I like reusing characters.

\- As always, many thanks to my editors, **Darkfire7881 **and **TheWildCanuck **for editing my stories for me


	3. Chapter 2

Thanks to everyone who's reviewed, or left a fav or a follow. Really appreciated it. Honestly wasn't expecting much, if anything, as I didn't expect this story to be super popular, given the content (original characters, no Spartans, no Covenant, and no action.)

As always, many thanks to **Darkfire7881 **for helping me edit this story.

* * *

**Chapter 2**

**Fort Glazunov, Katara Region, Skopje**  
**October 18, 2545**  
**0631**

Growing up, Moss had never been much of an athlete. He never really enjoyed exercising and he never really played any sports aside from a short stint when he was eight and his mom signed him up for soccer club, only for Moss to quit nearly a month later after he managed to humiliate himself during his very first game by accidentally scoring a goal on his own team. And as if to rub salt into the wound, that was the only goal Moss ever scored in his entire life while playing soccer.

Yeah.

At any case, Moss and exercise never really belonged in the same sentence. That's not to say Moss was ever obese, he was just never all that fit. Thus, one of the first things Moss started to do when he made the decision to enlist in the Army, was to start running. It started off slow: half a kilometer one week, a full kilometer the next, and so on and so on until he could run a full ten kilometers without stopping at which point he was getting shipped off to OSUT where his drill sergeants made his class run pretty much non-stop the entire time he was there. However, in the time he had been training by himself, Moss had been startled to discover something about himself: he actually enjoyed running. And despite OSUT, Jump School, Newsaka, Actium, and all sorts of physical therapy he had to do after being wounded, that one thing had somehow remained consistent.

He couldn't exactly pin down why that was. His best guess was that it was because running was very much a solitary sport. There was no team that was relying on Moss, or perhaps more accurately, for Moss to rely on. There was no opponents, no goals, or even a score. It was just Moss versus the time. And running was super easy too. All Moss had to do was breath in, breath out, and just keep on moving, which allowed Moss to simply shut off his brain and relax. No stress. No pressure. Only the track.

Of course, Moss was no super track star, certainly compared to some of the other guys in his company who had been track stars during their high school years. But it was a bit of pride for Moss that he was far from the slowest either, and thus, when he rounded the bend, he started to come across the ones who were.

The first person he came across was Lancelot. Moss still had no idea what had happened to Lancelot, but whatever it was, it was obviously still affecting him as he was clearly struggling. It had to be absolutely humiliating for Lancelot, who had once been a UNSC Marine Corps Force Reconnaissance man assigned to an ODST regiment, to have sunken this low, so Moss did his best not to stare. Instead, he turned his attention to the combat medic that was accompanying Lancelot, probably to make sure he would be alright.

Moss didn't recognize the medic, as it was some dude who had been with the 53rd before all this. The medic he had known, Ginevra Westley, who had accompanied their platoon during the second half of Newsaka and into Actium, had been returned to her unit a long time ago, much to Moss' disappointment and definitely to Lancelot's chagrin. Moss wasn't one to pay attention to rumors, but according to scuttlebutt, Lancelot and Westley apparently had been having a "thing" together, which was hardly appropriate for an officer and an enlisted, especially two in the same chain of command, but Moss had never said anything to Command as he was no Blue Falcon...

At any case, Lancelot and the medic were steadily making their way around the track like they did every morning for PT, and Moss didn't want to disturb them, so he didn't say a word as he silently jogged past.

The next group he ran across was Sergeant Restrepo and a bunch of the other tankers. As airborne units normally didn't have any tanks assigned to them, all the tankers from the newly dubbed "Tank Destroyer Troop" had come from the 53rd. Unfortunately, tankers were never expected to run as much as paratroopers were and as such, Restrepo and her buddies were struggling to maintain their pace. Nevertheless, Restrepo was able to recognize him and gave him a nod of acknowledgment, one that Moss returned as he jogged by.

Moss started to slow down, however, when he reached the next group. Standing to the side just off the track was Ferguson and Fish. Ferguson was standing to the side with a bottle in hand patiently waiting while Fish was doubled over -

\- puking out his guts into a nearby bush.

"Morning Moss," Ferguson called out as Moss approached.

"Morning Sergeant," Moss replied as he slowed down to a crawl. He jerked his head in Fish's direction. "He alright?"

"Hmm? Oh, yeah, he's fine," Ferguson supplied. Just as he said that, Fish let out a loud burp before hurling once more.

"He's just... slightly hungover," Ferguson sheepishly allowed.

Moss couldn't help but wrinkle his nose in disgust at the smell as he stepped off the track to stand by them.

"What, again?" he asked. "Isn't this like, the third time this week?"

"Fourth, I think," Ferguson corrected.

"Fourth," Moss rectified. "That's… a lot for one week. Keep this up, and it might become a daily occurrence!"

Moss had meant that last part more of a joke and given Ferguson's snort of amusement, it had clearly been conveyed that way. However, Fish's response was not quite what he expected.

"The fuck do you care Moss!?" Fish viciously spat. "So I drink a lot, is that what you're trying to say!? What are you Moss, my fucking father!? FUCK OFF!"

Moss raised his hands and reflexively took a step back at the sheer venom in Fish's voice. Even Ferguson seemed to have been taken by surprise.

"Jesus, Fish, take it easy," he said, sounding shocked. "Moss is just concerned; I'm sure he didn't mean anything about it."

Moss shook his head.

"Sorry Fish," he apologetically said. "I didn't mean to offend. I was just worried because, you know, you're my friend and everything and... Well, I don't have much of that anymore…"

Moss had tried to keep his voice light when saying that last part, but as he said it, his voice suddenly cracked for some reason, leaving Moss slightly embarrassed. He thought he saw Ferguson glancing in his direction with a concerned look on his face, but it must have been Moss' imagination as the next moment, Ferguson was right back to tending Fish.

In the meantime, Fish had deflated.

"Nah, fellas, don't apologize," he said, sounding remorseful. "This one is on me. I shouldn't have snapped like that. It's just... I got this pounding headache that's not going away anytime soon. Making me grumpy I guess, but I shouldn't have taken it out on you guys. Especially you Moss. Sorry."

"It's all good bro," Moss quietly replied.

Fish grunted his thanks as he climbed to his feet, wiping his mouth.

"Think you're going to be okay Fish?" Ferguson asked as he handed the bottle over to him. "Do we need to call the medic over?"

"Nah bro," Fish said between gulps of water. "I just need to keep moving. I'll be okay once I'm back on the track."

"Okay," Ferguson worriedly said. "Well, just take it slow, alright?"

"Right," Fish grunted in response as he started stretching.

"Moss, you going to join us?"

Moss shrugged.

"I think I missed trying to best the battalion record by, oh... seventeen minutes?" he noted with just the barest hint of sarcasm. "So... why not?"

"Cool. Fish, whenever you're ready."

They took off running, though at a far more sedated pace than Moss normally would have done, however he accepted it without complaint as he didn't want Fish to push himself too hard. As they ran, Moss couldn't help but continual glance in Ferguson's direction, something that Ferguson was quick to note.

"What's up Moss?"

Moss started, then guiltily shrugged.

"Nothing much Fergs. I was just wondering: how's the leg?"

Ferguson reached down and pulled up on his pants to reveal the prosthetic limb that had replaced his left leg after it had been practically amputated towards the end of the Newsaka campaign by a mortar strike.

"Holding steady," Ferguson reported. "After all the physical therapy I went through, I hardly even notice it any longer."

"Yeah, I noticed it didn't seem to have affected your ability to run all that much," Moss noted. "Think you're going to be able to pass the physical test at the end of the month?"

"With a bit more training, I'd say most likely. But... it doesn't really matter."

"Fergs is leaving the Airborne," Fish interjected.

Moss was surprised.

"Really? But if you can pass the physical requirements, who cares if you've got a prosthetic? Fucking Army man," he exclaimed indignantly, but Ferguson shook his head.

"For once, it's actually not the Army's fault: it's me," Ferguson admitted.

"You're choosing to leave the Airborne?"

"Yeah, I talked it over with my hubby," Ferguson explained. "I'm getting old and... well, I'd like a chance to settle down, start a family. Hard to do that with our deployments and the missions we get and... Well, it's getting a little too much. I've already put in a transfer."

Moss was shocked, both because he hadn't realized Ferguson had been planning on doing all this, nor how fast he was moving.

"Damn dude, I had no idea," Moss admitted. "How long you got before you leave?"

Ferguson shrugged. "No idea. Battalion wanted me to hang on, at least until our replacements start filing in so I guess I could help train them up a bit. But once that happens, I'm out. Who knows how long that will take, but that's why I haven't gotten promoted."

Moss had wondered about that. It had seemed like everyone else from Newsaka had been promoted already, if not in pay grade, than in position. But not Ferguson; he had still held a squad lead position. Now Moss understood why.

He suddenly felt a surge of sadness at the thought of Ferguson leaving. Ferguson had been here since before Moss had even arrived. Ferguson had been the first to welcome Moss to the division, and had helped him get situated. With Ferguson leaving, it almost felt like the end of an era. Just another one of Moss' dwindling list of friends, gone just like that...

Moss tried to not let any of his emotions show though. Clearly Ferguson had put a lot of thought into it and had not made this choice lightly. At the end of the day, Ferguson needed to do what was best for Ferguson, and if this choice was what would make him happy, then Moss would damn well try to be happy for him.

"So... you want to start a family, huh? What, with kids and everything?" Moss began.

"Ideally, yeah."

Moss glanced in Ferguson's direction. "You and your husband are both men, right?"

"Last time I checked, yeah. Why?"

Moss shrugged as he thought about the best way to word his next question. "So... how exactly does that... work...?"

Ferguson sighed. "We were thinking about adopting Moss."

"Ah," Moss said, feeling stupid. Somehow he hadn't thought about that. "Yeah, I guess between the Insurrection and now the Covenant, there are plenty of war orphans running around. They could use a good family like you."

"Yeah," Ferguson confirmed with a nod. "That's the idea. The hope and the dream."

Ferguson trailed off, and they continued to jog in silence. As they ran, Moss couldn't help but mentally kick himself. He couldn't believe he had made such an obvious and ignorant blunder like that. Of course Ferguson and his husband would have looked into adoption. Not only was that the most obvious thing for them to do, Moss was pretty sure he had heard Ferguson talking about in the past before.

"So Moss," Moss heard Ferguson start to say, breaking the silence as well as Moss' mental tirade. "I hear today's your first meeting with the psychiatrist..."

Moss mentally sighed at the reminder. In all honesty, he'd been dreading the meeting all week though he couldn't say for certain why. "Yeah, I guess it is."

"Which doctor are you seeing?"

"Uh... Colonel Grant Russell?" Moss said with a bit of uncertainty. He hadn't realized more than one doctor had been servicing the battalion, but he supposed that made sense.

"Don't know him. Doctor I saw was a nice young lady by the name of Captain Jasmine Al-Bassam. God. Now that was a gorgeous woman."

Moss stared at Ferguson, then glanced at Fish. "Hey Fish. Weren't we just talking about how gay Ferguson was?"

Fish let out an appreciative snort.

"Hey, just because I swing for the other team doesn't mean I can't appreciate a beautiful woman when I see one, you know?" Ferguson retorted lightly.

Moss shrugged.

"Fair enough," he allowed, then hesitated. "So... you happen to know anything about my guy? Colonel Russell?"

Ferguson shook his head. "Nope. Like I said, never even heard of the dude."

"I saw him," Fish unexpectedly volunteered.

"Yeah?" Moss asked, glancing at Fish.

"Yeah. For my... you know, psych eval." Fish vaguely gestured at his own head

"Huh. What was he like?"

Fish shrugged. "Seemed alright to me. But you know what the key is to beating psychiatrists, don't you Moss?"

Moss shook his head. "No."

"You got to tell him about your mother. And how you view her in a sexual light."

"Err... what?"

"No no, trust me," Fish insisted. "Psychiatrists love this shit, alright? They eat it right up. Just tell them you constantly think of your mother's tits and how you want to, I dunno, suck on them or some shit. Psychiatrists will give you some bullshit spiel about what it all means, maybe even give you some meds, and then that'll be it. You're done. You're 'cured.'"

Moss and Ferguson exchanged a glance.

"Uhhh... Fish?" Ferguson slowly began. "Is there something you want to tell us about you and your mother?"

"What?" Fish waved his hand dismissively. "No, I'm saying that's what you tell the doc. I'm not saying that's what I really think!"

"Right..." Ferguson said skeptically, but discreetly behind Fish's back, he winked at Moss, who had to fight hard not to start laughing. "I'm just saying... as a gay man, I know all about being judged for my personal preferences, so I try to keep an open mind. But... okay, I got to say it Fish: that shit ain't right yo."

"I know, right?" Moss said, quickly jumping on the joke. "It's bad enough I have to deal with Ferguson's blasphemy here, but now I got to deal with your incest? Come on man."

"Guys, I don't think of my mom in that way," Fish insisted. "I'm just saying: that's what you tell your psychiatrist. That is not how I really feel!"

Moss glanced at Ferguson. "I don't know Fergs," he said. "What do you think?"

"He seems sincere enough but honestly, it's hard to say. What do you think Moss?"

"Methinks he doth protest too much," Moss said in a singsongy voice.

Ferguson adopted a look of thoughtful consideration. "You know what Moss? I think you may be right! Ones who protest the loudest..."

Fish abruptly stopped running and whirled around, catching Moss by surprise.

"Fuck you guys," he emphatically snapped. "You guys are a bunch of fucking assholes. Cocksuckers."

And with that, Fish just took off down the track, leaving Moss and Ferguson standing there, shocked by his outburst.

"Guess we were a little too hard on him," Ferguson said, sounding guilty.

"Didn't... didn't he used to make those jokes all the time?" Moss couldn't help but ask as he scratched his head in confusion. "Or am I thinking of someone else?"

"No, that was Fish," Ferguson confirmed. "He's just... he's just going through some rough times right now."

Moss immediately felt guilty.

"Fuck, I didn't know that!" he exclaimed, horrified.

Ferguson shook his head. "Don't feel bad. He's been trying to keep it to himself, but..."

He trailed off and Moss nodded sympathetically. That, he could understand.

"Let's just finish our run," Ferguson finally said and Moss nodded before he started picking up the pace once more, following in Ferguson's wake.

As he started moving again, Moss couldn't help but glance at his clock and sigh.

One hour until his appointment.

**xxx**

At precisely zero nine hundred hours, Moss stood outside Colonel Russell's door, wondering what he was supposed to do. Moss had never seen a psychiatrist, much less a military one, so he wasn't sure what the protocol was. Did he just waltz right in? Did he knock? What was he supposed to do once he was inside the room?

Deciding it was probably best to treat the man like the colonel he was, Moss hastily straightened his uniform as if he was going for an inspection, then knocked smartly on the door.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.

"Door's unlocked!" someone yelled from inside the room.

Figuring that mean "enter," Moss opened the door and marched in.

Inside, the room was a typical looking doctor's office. The walls were covered in posters and degrees, showing off Colonel Russell's expertise and education, as well as a variety of books which, in this day and age, were mostly holographic and just for show as no one really used physical books anymore, just data pads. Unlike most doctors' offices though, Russell also had a bunch of military paraphernalia: badges, medals, and a bunch of insignias of past units he had most undoubtedly been assigned to throughout his career.

Most of the room was occupied by a single desk, with two chairs in front and one chair behind it. There was no couch to be seen, which kind of came as a disappointment to Moss if he was being honest with himself; there was always a couch in a psychiatrist's office in the movies.

Most of Moss' attention, however, was on the man sitting behind the desk. Russell was somewhat of an older man, probably in his mid to late forties. He had short wispy hair, a clean shaven face, and a sort of bemused expression as he watched Moss come marching into the room like he was on the parade ground. He, however, didn't say a word as Moss marched right up to his desk and came to attention, snapping off a salute as he did.

"Colonel Russell, sir!" Moss barked. "Sergeant Moss Shen, reporting as ordered, sir!"

Moss held his salute and watched as a sort of half-smile crossed Russell's face as he stood up and returned the salute

"At ease Sergeant," he commanded and Moss hurriedly dropped the salute and assumed an 'at ease' stance. "No no. I meant 'relax' Sergeant. We're not on the parade ground and Command Sergeant Major Awuah isn't here to yell at you. Relax."

Feeling a little a bit puzzled, Moss nevertheless allowed himself to slouch a little. Russell took one look at him and let out a small laugh.

"Actually, why don't you take a seat?"

Feeling like he had somehow did something wrong, Moss went ahead and did as he was told. Pulling out one of the chairs, Moss sat down and watched as Russell sit upright.

"Well, Sergeant," Russell began as he placed his forearms on his desk and began drumming his fingers together. "I have to say: while I appreciate the respect you're showing me, it's not strictly required."

"Um... pardon me for asking, sir, but... you are a colonel of the UNSC armed forces, are you not, sir?" Moss couldn't help but ask. Russell nodded.

"I am," he confirmed, "but I'm also a doctor. And in this room, that's the title that takes precedence. Because you see, this little session we're currently having, as well as any future sessions we may have, is not about the military or the Army, it's about you. You, your well-being, and any and all concerns you may have. This is about you Moss." Russell paused. "May I call you Moss?"

Moss shrugged.

"You're in charge, sir," was all he said.

Russell frowned.

"Well, I appreciate that Moss, however one of the things I would like to do is make this more of a casual affair. So, if you can, forget about your rank, my status as an officer, and all other military formalities. In this office, we're just two gentlemen having a conversation. At which case, I would like you to call me by my first name, Grant. Do you think you can do that Moss?"

Moss regarded Russell carefully. He didn't know why, but this seemed like a trick or a test to him though he didn't know why. That's what psychiatrists did, right?

The problem was, Moss wasn't sure what sort of answer Russell was hoping for, so Moss shrugged and said, "I suppose I could, sir."

"Grant," he immediately corrected.

Rus- Grant looked mildly amused.

"Don't worry, it is a slightly unusual name. Give it some time: you'll get used to it," he said gently, before suddenly clasping his hands together. "So. Our first session. As I'm sure you're undoubtedly aware Moss, I'm ultimately going to be the one to clear you for active duty. And to do that, ultimately I'm going to need to ask you questions about your experiences fighting on Newsaka and Actium. However, if you're anything like me, I personally wouldn't be able to open up to a complete stranger. So, for this session, what I would simply like to do is just get to know each other. Is that alright with you?"

Moss hesitated as something occurred to him. He wasn't sure how to word it, but ultimately he just decided to go ahead and say it. "There's something you should probably know about me, sir."

"And what's that Moss?"

"Well..." Moss shuffled around uncomfortably in his seat. "First off: I want to be able to work with you to get me cleared for active duty as soon as possible. Whatever it takes, I'm game."

"Well! That's certainly good to hear," Grant began.

"However," Moss continued, "you should know that some of the things that happened to me while on Actium? They're classified. And so, I'm not sure how much I'll be able to tell you."

Moss stole a glance at Grant's face to see how he would react to that, but his expression remained unchanged and he seemed as bemused as ever.

"Thank you for informing me about that," he said. "When we reach that part, I'll be sure to be careful to avoid asking you any questions you're unable to answer. For now though, if you don't mind, I'd rather focus on getting to know you."

Moss eagerly nodded. The less he had to talk about Actium, the better off he would be. The better off both of them would be.

"Alright then, sir," Moss said. "What would you like to talk about?"

"Hmm. To be honest, I'm not entirely sure," Grant admitted. "Is there anything you'd like to talk about? Anything at all?"

Moss warily eyed Grant, wondering if he was trying to hint at something. "Anything, sir?"

"Well, preferably non-military related," Grant amended and Moss felt himself involuntarily relaxing. "But yes; anything you'd like."

"Anything, huh? Like, if I wanted to talk about last night's episode of Wormhole Jumper, you'd be down with that?" Moss jokingly asked. To his surprise, Grant's eyes immediately lit up.

"Oh, you watch that show, do you? You know, it is surprisingly hard to find someone else around here who also watches that show."

Moss stared at him. "Wait, are you serious?"

"I am." Grant nodded. "I asked some of the nurses around here but they just gave me an odd look. I guess some people just don't know good television when they see it."

"I know, right?" Moss eagerly agreed. "Maybe it's because it's a military base, but most people seem to think that show is rather nerdy or some shit like that."

"Pardon my language, sir," he sheepishly added but Grant shook his head dismissively.

"Moss, I work on a military base," he pointed out. "Trust me: there is nothing you can say that I haven't heard before."

"That's good to know," Moss said. "Well, as I was saying, most of my squad didn't watch it, which made it rather frustrating as it's always better to be able to talk about it afterwards with someone, especially when everything is fresh in your mind. But one day, by shear accident, I found out one of my friends was also a fan. Yeah, it turned out that Pip -"

Moss was about to say that Pip had been something of a closet fan of the show, but just as he was about to say that, his throat suddenly became very dry and his voice abruptly cut off.

Clearing his throat a couple of times, Moss looked around and spotted a couple of unopened water bottles sitting on Grant's desk.

", sir, do you mind...?" he asked, pointing at them.

"Oh no, go right ahead. Please, make yourself at home," Grant assured him.

Grabbing one of the bottles, Moss took a huge gulp, nearly choking as it accidentally went down his windpipe.

"Sorry, sir," he said between coughs.

"Oh, don't worry," Grant said lightly. "Bottles: they'll get you every time. Take all the time you need."

Moss nodded and took another sip, this time far more slowly. The lump in his throat had yet to go away, and he wasn't sure why.

"So," Grant began in the awkward silence that had begun to grow in the room. "What did you think of the twist last night? Apparently the Gamma Killer is actually Commander Bangeroo's alternative self from an alternate dimension? Who would have thought?"

Moss frowned as he thought about the episode he had seen last night.

"I didn't... really like it," he admitted.

"Really. I thought it was pretty well done. The producers had been dropping clues about it all season long, it was just hard to put it all together. It makes me want to watch the entire season again, just to see what I had missed the first time around. What didn't you like about it?"

Moss considered the question. Normally he was a sucker for this kind of thing, but for some reason, he'd been rather disappointed when he watched it last night.

"I'm not sure," Moss slowly began. "I think, and it's definitely petty, but I guess I just don't like the idea of Commander Bangeroo being some sort of vicious killer."

"But it's not really him, is it?" Grant pointed out. "Alternative dimensions and everything. I'm sure once we find out more about this new Bangeroo's backstory, we'll find out the reason why he's such a vicious killer."

"See, that's the thing though: maybe I just lack imagination, but I just find it hard to think of a reason why Bangeroo would turn to, for a lack of a better word, evil. I mean, we've seen the amount of shit he's been through throughout the years."

"He's definitely been through the wringer, hasn't he?" Grant agreed.

"Yeah, and that's my point. Throughout all this, he's managed to stay true to his ideals of truth and justice," Moss argued as he struggled to organize his thoughts. "He's pretty much proved he's the incorruptible paragon of righteousness. It's how he's always been. That's kind of his thing, isn't it? To protect the innocent and save lives. That's why he joined the Wormhole Defense Corps in the first place, right? And, I guess I admire that in a person," Moss lamely finished.

"Huh, interesting," Grant thoughtfully said. "I'll admit, I hadn't thought about it in that way. I'll have to watch the episode again tonight to see how I feel about it again."

"Is that also why you joined the Army?" he suddenly asked out of the blue. "To protect the innocent and save lives?"

Moss automatically opened his mouth to reply, but then stopped as he realized he didn't really know how to answer that question. The question itself wasn't that hard... and yet, Moss found himself struggling with a response.

The seconds ticked by but Grant didn't say anything. All he did was stare at Moss with a patient look on his face yet, Moss could feel sweat rolling down the back of his neck as he struggled to form a response. Any response.

"Not... exactly, sir," Moss finally said.

**xxx**

Moss calmly pulled out a cigarette and lit it. Taking a quick draw, he sat there, regarding all the tasks he still needed to do in the armory. Despite having been working here for a week now, there was still quite a lot that needed to be accomplished. Merging the small arms armories of two separate divisions was not exactly as simple as it sound because it wasn't just a simple matter of transferring the contents from one location to another. Inventory had to be done for one. As guns were obviously designed to kill other living beings, the military took missing firearms very seriously and as such, every weapon the units owned had to be accounted for. Once they were inventoried, then they had to be relabeled and re-numbered to reflect their ownership by the new unit. Then it had to be checked that the armory had the appropriate amount of weapons as indicated in the unit's specific TO&E. Which by itself wasn't all that troublesome, however, complicating matters was the fact that two divisions had been consolidated, and then downsized to a single brigade, meaning there were a lot of redundant weapons that could be removed.

All in all, that was a lot of work for a single person.

Flicking the butt of his cigarette away, Moss climbed to his feet and got back to work. At the moment, he was still in the "inventory" phase, trying to sort out the leftover weapons that had been gathered after the unit's withdraw from Actium. Things had obviously been chaotic during that time, and the armory reflected that chaos as there were all sorts of weapons from all over the place in various conditions. Currently, Moss was making his way through a pile of weapons that contained MA37 assault rifles, M6G pistols, M319 grenade launchers, M739 squad automatic weapons, and M392 designated marksman rifles, all of which were weapons that a company of UNSC Army combat engineers were expected to have.

However, also mixed in the pile were a bunch of other weapons a company like this one shouldn't have had: M7 submachine guns, MA5B automatic rifles, MA5C model assault rifles, BR55 and BR55HB model battle rifles, M90 shotguns, M301 under-barrel grenade launchers, and even the occasional MA5K carbine. How this unit had gotten a hold of so many Navy and Marine Corps weapons, Moss wasn't sure, but then again, he had heard both the 53rd and the 222nd had been working in close cooperation with the Corps during the battle, especially in the early days of the campaign.

Finally, there were a bunch of civilian weapons in the pile, some of which he wasn't sure why anyone would have even grabbed in the first place. Why, for example, in the midst of an alien invasion, would someone want to arm themselves with a flintlock rifle?

But Moss' job wasn't to judge, it was to organize, so that's what he'd been doing: sorting the weapons into two major categories and several subcategories.

Obviously, the two main categories were weapons to keep and weapons to get rid of. Weapons that didn't fit within the Army's specified TO&E Moss simply got rid of. Maybe if he had time, he'd get them fixed up and cleaned up so they could be returned to their respective branches but for the time being, there was no point in keeping them. The Army simply didn't have the spare parts in the inventory for them, nor even the proper ammunition, so they were about as useful as a paperweight right now.

The stuff Moss could and did keep however, needed to be further organized into three subcategories, depending on their condition: good, repairable, and trash. Weapons that needed no repairs, just a good wash down, obviously went into the "good" category. Weapons that were still usable, but just needed some new parts, went into the "repair" category. And weapons that were complete junk went into the "trash" category. For example, Moss had one rifle that had been practically bent in half. How that was even possible, Moss had no idea, but it was clearly junk. A rifle that was simply missing a pistol grip though, could be fixed and was thus kept. And so on and so on.

Moss steadily made his way through the pile. As he was the only one in the armory, things were quiet. In the past, Moss would throw some music on, just to fill the void, but not tonight. Tonight, he was simply too distracted by events that had happened this morning. Doctor Russell's question to him bounced around the inside of his skull like a brick tumbling around inside a washing machine: why had Moss joined the Army?

Why?

It was a simple question. So why did Moss have so much trouble answering it? Of course he had joined the Army to protect the innocent and save lives. That's what soldiers did.

Right?

But that's not how Moss had replied. Because, in his heart, Moss knew that wasn't what soldiers did. That was what heroes did. And Moss was certainly no hero.

Because if he was...

...

...

...then maybe his friends would still be alive...

* * *

1\. A Blue Falcon is a US military slang term that stands for "buddy fucker." It's an insult, and used to refer to service members who actions routinely screw their fellow service members whether it be by throwing them under the metaphorical bus, or just in general, betrays their comrades' trust.

2\. A "Troop" in the US Army, is simply the cavalry equivalent to an infantry company or an artillery battery.

3\. TO&E: table of organization and equipment. Basically a document that sets the standard how each specific military unit is to be organized, and what they should be equipped with.

4\. The MA5B in canon is an assault rifle, however in my slice of the universe, I decided with its 60 round magazine, it made more sense to me to make it an automatic rifleman in the same vein as the modern day M27 IAR and the RPK/RPK-74. For more information, see Battle: Actium, chapter 11. For a headcanon description of the history of the weapon, see the author's notes for Battle: Actium, chapter 29.


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

**Somewhere over the Skies of Skopje  
November 5, 2545  
1021**

"_Deploying in three, two, one… MARK!"_

Moss automatically braced himself as a loud sliding noise filled the air as the modified APC hurtled forward towards the rear of the aircraft. Last time he'd been up here, it had taken them about three seconds to reach the back so Moss began mentally counting.

One-one thousand, two-one thousand, three-one –

There was a loud grinding of metal against metal as the vehicle slid out from the rear of the aircraft and began plummeting out of the sky.

"HERE WE GO BOYS!" someone excitedly yelled from the rear of the APC and someone else let out a loud whoop, but Moss didn't follow suit as he was too busy resisting the reflexive urge to tense up as he felt his stomach drop. Moss would be the first to admit, for a paratrooper, he was strangely afraid of falling.

Fortunately, between all the paratrooper qualifying jumps, pre-deployment training jumps, and two actual combat jumps under his belt, Moss had enough experience to know what to expect and thus, what steps he needed to take to prevent himself from panicking. Unfortunately, not everyone in the APC had that same knowledge…

"Ohfuckohfuckohfuck!" the soldier sitting beside Moss was chanting under his breath. Moss glanced in his direction in time to see him violently tensing as the APC abruptly lurched due to a sudden shift in the wind. "Fuck!"

In many ways, Moss couldn't help but feel a sense of sympathy for the man. After all, Corporal Helios Elias had been part of the 53rd Armored, not the 222nd, and thus probably never intended to volunteer for a paratrooper unit like Moss had.

At the same time, his screaming was getting kind of annoying. After all, it wasn't as if they were in free fall. Their speed was being held in check by nearly a dozen parachutes that had deployed the moment the APC had left the aircraft. And while the APC _was _falling faster than a regular human would have under the same circumstances due to the APC's heavier mass, it was nothing like falling at near terminal velocity speeds.

Yet, Elias continued to freak out and it was taking Moss just about everything he had to avoid snapping at him in annoyance. Unfortunately, not everyone in the APC shared Moss' restraint and across the aisle, he could see Fish boring holes in Elias' head with his angry glare. Moss could see Fish opening his mouth, probably to yell at him, but before Fish could say a word –

"Standby to activate retrorockets!" Moss' platoon sergeant, Sergeant First Class Adrian Stalgis yelled from the APC's commander's seat. "In three! Two! One! Activate!"

A loud _swoosh_ noise filled the air, and the APC lurched as the retrorockets ignited, noticeably slowing the vehicle's descent through the sky. Now, last time Moss had done this, he remembered it taking anywhere between five to seven seconds before they hit the ground, so, once again, he started counting.

One-one thousand, two-one thousand, three-one thousand -

"Touchdown in three!" Stalgis started yelling at about the same time. "Two... one... MARK!"

_**THUMP**_.

The entire APC shook as it hit the ground, causing Moss to bounce around in his seat.

"Detaching arresting equipment!" Stalgis reported and Moss could hear a popping noise as the parachutes and retrorockets were automatically ejected off the exterior of the APC. "Dropping ramp... squad, deploy!"

Moss hastily unbuckled his restraints and climbed to his feet as the ramp to the rear of the APC dropped open. At this point, if this had been in combat or even a live exercise, the entire squad would have charged out of the APC at a dead sprint and immediately assumed defensive positions. Instead, the entire squad just strolled out of the APC as if they were just getting off a rather intense rollercoaster ride.

"Dude! That was fucking awesome!" someone was saying. Moss recognized him as having been a combat engineer from the 53rd, but at the moment he couldn't remember his name. "No wonder people volunteer for this shit!"

"I know, right!?" the man's friend was saying, just as excitedly.

Moss watched as the two excitedly proceed to essentially reenact their every reaction to every second of the journey back to the ground, from the moment the APC left the aircraft, to the moment it hit the ground, and he couldn't help but be amused by their reaction. It was strange, the stark contrast between their reaction and -

Moss was nearly knocked off his feet as someone from behind him came rushing out of the APC. Elias hurtled himself out of the vehicle and onto solid ground where he dropped to his knees and practically started kissing the earth. Startled, Moss stared at him, then exchanged a glance with Fish as he emerged from the vehicle.

Fish took one look at Elias and started to shake his head.

"Goddamn Straight Legs," he muttered, his upper lip curling up into a derisive sneer. "Remind me again Moss: why do we need these fucking idiots?"

"Probably cause of shit like this," Moss indifferently replied, jerking his thumb over his shoulder in the APC's direction. "You know how to maintain one of these? Cause I sure as hell don't."

Fish let out another derisive snort.

"Okay, fair enough," he allowed, "but you'd think the Army would have at least sent these guys to Jump School first. Get 'em trained up before sending them back here."

"That would have been the logical thing to do, yes," Moss agreed as they walked off the ramp and back onto solid ground. "But this is the Army we're talking about: when have they ever done the logical thing?"

Fish opened his mouth to respond but before he could say anything, he was abruptly cut off.

"Alright, squad! Those of you who are actually trained paratroopers: pack up all the chutes! The rest of you, grab the retrorockets and start loading them up onto the APC!" Stalgis ordered from where he was sitting in the commander's hatch. "Once you're done with that, pile back into the APC, we're heading back to base to reset."

Moss grunted in acknowledgement as he walked over to one of the dozen parachutes laying on the ground and began working on trying to pack it back up in preparation for returning back to base and going through the jump once more. As he worked, Moss couldn't help but look over at the APC and reflect on the reason for said vehicle's assignment to this brigade.

With the loss of Draco III, the abandonment of Newsaka, and then the devastating destruction of Actium, the triple losses in rapid succession had left the UNSC as a whole reeling to recover from the massive casualties the Covenant had inflicted on them, and none more so than the Marine Corps.

Unusual for the Covenant, all three campaigns at the beginning of the year had involved heavy amounts of ground warfare, meaning both the Army and the Marine Corps had suffered from an equal, if not higher, amount of casualties than either the Navy or the Air Force normally did. However, whereas the Army was able to recoup their losses in a relatively short amount of time, due to the fact they were drafting anybody who had at least two brain cells to rub together and shoving them through basic as fast as they could, the Marine Corps still had standards for their recruits. And while those standards meant that, as a whole, the average Marine was better disciplined and much better trained than their Army counterparts, it also meant there were periods where the Corps simply couldn't replenish their line units as they simply didn't have enough recruits trained up to be Marines yet. To make up for that shortfall, UNSC High Command had turned to the Army.

Specifically, the Airborne Army.

The idea was that several airborne brigades would be transferred from their parent divisions, re-flagged as "independent airborne brigade combat teams," and paired with an Army combat aviation brigade to form "Airborne Groups," that would then be transferred to Marine Corps control. So, in this case, the 127th Airborne Brigade had been paired with the "227th Combat Aviation Brigade" to form the "27th Army Airborne Group," and assigned directly to the Marine's 9th Expeditionary Force, which had been re-garrisoned here on Skopje after it's destruction on Actium.

Using Army units to augment Marine Corps units was nothing new of course, but what was unusual about this situation was that, while those assignments had been temporary and really only for a specific campaign, from what Moss was hearing, _these_ assignments would be more in line as a semi-permanent status. Or, at least until the war against the Covenant had concluded. So, in other words, while the Army would still be responsible for recruitment and training of these brigades, the Corps would be responsible for feeding them, clothing them, and providing logistical support. From what Moss had been told, it was pretty much a backdoor way to provide the Corps with recruits, without actually having to lower their standards, which sounded kind of dumb in Moss' opinion. But then again, what did he know? He was just a grunt.

With a loud exhale of exertion, Moss hefted the parachute he'd been gathering and walked over to the APC, where he found Ferguson crouched by the ramp, studying the thickness of the armor.

"Man, these things are really cool, aren't they?" he commented as Moss walked up and tossed the parachute onto the roof.

"Yeah, they're pretty sweet," Moss agreed. "Armor-wise at least. Unfortunately, can't say the same for the weapons though."

He glanced at the APC's turret. The vehicle model they were using was an engineering breaching vehicle and as such, while it had just about as much armor as a regular IFV, it didn't carrying the same amount of armament.

"Sure, it's no autocannon," Ferguson agreed. "But don't forget this thing is still armed with a dual-mount fifty caliber heavy machine gun and a forty millimeter automatic grenade launcher. That's a lot more firepower than you or I could ever hope to normally bring with us."

"Oh sure," Moss said, bobbing his head. "But have you seen what one of those cannons can do to an Elite? Plus, they're wicked fun to shoot."

"When'd you ever get to shoot a forty mil Moss?" Fish asked as he walked up and joined the conversation.

Moss opened his mouth to respond, but then hesitated when he remembered that had happened back on Actium. Back when...

Despite Moss' best attempts to hide his emotions, Fish must have seen something in Moss' face because he immediately shook his head and said, "Never mind. Forget I asked."

Gratefully nodding his head, Moss nevertheless kept his mouth shut as he did his best to bring his emotions under control. Last thing he wanted to do was start to cry in front of everyone.

In the meantime though, Fish had turned to Ferguson.

"These things would have been hella nice on Newsaka, don't you think?" he was saying.

"Okay, _that_... I don't really know," Ferguson admitted. "I mean, don't get me wrong, it would have been nice to have someplace dry to sleep in at night during Operation Long Patrol, but don't forget: Newsaka was pretty unique for us in the fact we were able to trap the Covenant in some pretty shitty area for maneuver warfare. What, like, ninety-five percent of all of OP Mossflower and Long Patrol took place in the mountainous rain forest of the Tien Giang Forest. I mean, when you've got Warthogs getting bogged down in the terrain, you _know_ heavy armor wouldn't have survived."

"Still," he added. "I can think of a lot of other places something like this would have been really nice. Wonder why this was the first time this has ever been tried?"

"Well, technically, it's not the _first_ time," Moss said, jumping back into the conversation. "During the Second World War, the Allies tried delivering tanks via glider. And, towards the end of the twentieth century, the Soviet and later Russian Airborne forces, or the VDV, were famous for being one of the only parachute infantry units to have airdropped vehicles. But the problem was and had been: any vehicle light enough to survive an airdrop would really be too light to stand up against anything stronger than small arms fire."

"'Course, with modern technology..." Moss jerked his head in the direction of the retrorockets the rest of the squad was loading onto the APC. "Not much of a problem anymore."

"Huh," Fish commented. "Well thanks Mister Encyclopedia; that was informative."

Moss felt a surge of anger at that. Just because Moss read and Fish didn't, didn't mean Fish had to be all shitty about it…

Moss quickly took a deep breath and forced himself to try and calm down. He didn't know what it was about him recently, but he'd just been so emotional lately. Everything seemed to trigger him, and honestly, it was getting annoying. He wondered if he was PMS'ing.

While Moss had been struggling to bring his emotions under control, in the meantime, Fish had turned to Ferguson.

"So..." Fish continued. "If this shit has been done before, and it's not new, any idea why the Army waited until fucking now to reintroduce it?"

Moss quickly jumped back into the conversation.

"Probably felt like there was no need," he replied. "The VDV was unusual in the fact that it was its own independent branch of the Russian and Soviet military, acting as Russia's expeditionary force. They were supposed to be an independent quick reaction force that was capable of being deployed at a drop of a hat to hostile lands very far away from friendly reinforcements and support, so they sort of needed to have a little bit of everything in order to conduct and sustain operations. They were sort of analogous to our own UNSCMC. Whereas we, and really, most historical airborne forces, have always intended to operate in conjunction with heavier armored forces. So, less of an urge for armies to acquire dedicated shit like this."

"Makes sense," Ferguson interjected. "Plus, these things can't be easy to protect. I mean, if you think about it, we're big enough targets as it is when we're falling out of the sky, all helpless and unable to shoot back at incoming fire. These APC's, they're at least ten times bigger than we are. Makes me wonder how the Army intends to defend against that stuff."

Moss shrugged again.

"If I understood Lancelot correctly when he was telling us about all this," Moss began, "High Command doesn't really intend to parachute us into battle, like how we did just now, all too often. Most of the time, we'll probably do what the Marines do: Pelican in, deposit the vehicles directly onto the ground, then bugger off. Still, military probably likes to have the _option_ of dropping us in, which is why we're training for it."

"Squad, mount up! We're heading back to base!" Stalgis abruptly yelled.

Waving his hand in acknowledgement, Moss started to climb back into the APC.

"You know, what I want to do is actually fucking run some exercises with these vehicles," Fish groaned as they walked up the ramp and sat down. "I like jumping as much as the next guy, but hell, I need some distractions man. This cock teasing is fucking killing me."

"Got to have all the pieces first before you can start working on the puzzle Fish," Ferguson cheerfully replied. "Until we start filling up our ranks again, no point in running drills. In fact, we probably shouldn't be jumping in these vehicles without our replacements here, though I suspect all this is just so all the vets can get a feel for what we're doing here before all the junior enlisted arrive."

"Plus, it probably wouldn't be good if the squirmy E-1s and E-2s saw their NCOs crying like a little bitch every time we jumped," Fish sneered, staring at Elias as he nervously climbed into the APC.

"Hey. Be nice," Ferguson ordered.

"I _am_ being nice," Fish grumbled as he strapped himself into his seat.

Moss looked up towards the front of the APC as Stalgis dropped back inside.

"Closing the ramp; watch your feet!" he hollered into the back of the vehicle before turning to the driver. "Driver, let's go. Take us back to base."

With a surge of power, the APC's engine roared to life and the driver took off in the direction of the base. Between the shrieking of the vehicle's tracks, the thrumming of the engines, and the hydraulic whining of the turret, there wasn't much of an opportunity for conversations. Thus, it came as an immense surprise when Ferguson abruptly leaned over towards Moss and began speaking into his ear.

"Moss! How've your therapy sessions been going?" he asked fairly loudly to be heard over all the chaos.

Moss gave a start and quickly glance around to see if anyone was listening, but Ferguson had clearly been waiting for this moment as no one seemed to be able to hear them.

For a moment, Moss was tempted to pretend like he hadn't heard Ferguson as this was not a topic he was interested in discussing, but he wouldn't be able to avoid Ferguson forever; plus, if he ignored Ferguson now, Ferguson would simply find another, less convenient, time to bug him. So, it was probably in his best interest to reply.

Moss took a moment to think about how he wanted to respond. He wasn't interested in having this conversation yet, at the same time, he didn't want to lie.

"It's going," he finally said, hoping the vague answer would be enough to satisfy Ferguson. Unfortunately for Moss, it wasn't.

"Yeah?" Ferguson replied with a knowing look. "How _has_ it been going? Has it been helping? Have you been able to sleep at night?"

"How do you know I haven't been sleeping?" Moss reflexively asked without thinking before catching himself. "Better yet: what makes you _think_ I haven't been sleeping?"

The look Ferguson gave him was one full of pity and concern.

"I have eyes you know," he gently chided. "I can see how weary you look in the mornings plus, you're always tired and grumpy."

"I mean, more so than usual," he added before Moss could revert to his standard joke that he was 'always tired and grumpy.' "Not only that, Fish has mentioned a couple of times he's heard you shuffling around in the middle of the night."

"Well, Fish should mind his own goddamn business," Moss reflexively snapped before immediately reining his temper in. Not before Ferguson had notice though, unfortunately.

"He's just concern about you Moss. We all are," he quietly said.

'Why?' Moss wanted to ask, but caught himself. He had a feeling that wouldn't have gone down very well.

Moss sighed and thought about how much he wanted to tell Ferguson. On one hand, there was a part of him, a very small part, that wanted to let Ferguson know what he thinking. That part though was getting drowned out by the realization that, Moss' personal problems were just that: personal. And he needed to deal with it himself, and not be one giant pain in the ass to everyone else. After all, everyone had their own shit to deal with and who was Moss to try and add more?

"You know there's only so much I can talk about, right?" Moss asked, trying to stall for time.

"Right. Because of the 'secret squirrel shit' you guys were doing on Actium."

Moss shot Ferguson a startled look. How the hell had he...?

Ferguson shook his head.

"It's not that hard to figure out Moss," he pointed out with just the barest hint of amusement. "Anyone else, you can look up the details of where they were and how they were wounded or killed during the Actium Campaign. But you and the rest of 2nd Squad? Total black hole. No information whatsoever. It can only mean one thing really: whatever you guys were up to, it's classified."

Moss couldn't help but snort in amusement. Well, so much for that.

"Yeah," he said instead. "That's the problem. Only so much I can talk about you know."

"But your sleeping problems. You should be able to talk about that."

Moss resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Ferguson was about as persistent as his parents, and he wasn't entirely convinced that was a good thing.

"When's your next session with the doc?" Ferguson asked.

Moss sighed.

"Tomorrow," he replied, doing his best to hide his reluctance. In that regard, he was unsuccessful as he could see Ferguson frowning.

"Come on Moss, don't be like that," he urged. "Doc Russell just wants to help."

"We all do," he added, gesturing at himself. "I mean, I know you know this, but you're my friend and I want you to be okay."

'So why are you leaving the Airborne,' Moss wanted to ask, but didn't. What was he, fucking five, whining like that? Ferguson had to do what was best for Ferguson, and who was Moss to try and change that?

Without warning, the APC came to a grinding halt.

"Squad, dismount!" Stalgis barked as the ramp lowered. "Let's get ready to reset!"

Giving Moss a friendly slap on his shoulder, Ferguson unbuckled his harness and climbed to his feet.

Moss didn't join him.

Instead, he sat there, in his seat, thinking about his session with Doc Russell tomorrow, and he couldn't help that feeling of dread that started to permeate his entire body. It was getting hard to avoid talking to Russell now. They had long since left the "icebreaker" stage behind, and Russell was starting to ask some pointed questions about Moss' experience not just on Newsaka, but on Actium too. Questions, Moss had no interest in recounting.

"Come on you two, shake a leg," Stalgis ordered as he walked through the cargo bay and with a start, Moss looked around and realized he wasn't the only one sitting there: Elias was sitting nearby, looking as nervous and apprehensive as Moss did, though, more than likely, the cause of his dread was the idea of going back up into the air.

For a brief moment, Moss was tempted to point out to Elias that his problem was that he was just too tense when they jumped. That he automatically and reflexively tensed all of his muscles the moment he felt that falling sensation, which was the complete opposite thing he was supposed to do as it disrupted his blood flow and, if anything, made the sensation that much worse.

But no. Moss' advice had never really panned out before in the past, and there was no reason to think things had changed since then. After all, if he _had_ known what the hell he was doing, maybe things wouldn't have turned out as badly as they did on Actium. Maybe instead of Ferguson asking him how he was doing, it would have been...

Moss quickly unbuckled his harness. Without a word, he got up and left the APC.

**xxx**

Moss idly flicked through the pages of the manual, trying to figure out how the hell this machine worked. Apparently it was a device that, upon placing the bolt carrier group or the barrel or even the receiver of a rifle, it would measure the thickness of the part, extrapolated roughly how many thousands of rounds of ammunition that had been fired through it, and determine whether or not it needed replacing or not. It was a pretty damn helpful device when it came to the maintenance of firearms as the number one cause for failures in a firearm was simply worn out parts.

However, they had yet to go over exactly how to _use_ the device in his online classes, which is why Moss was struggling.

True to Lancelot's word, when an actual small arms armorer failed to emerge after a month's time, Lancelot had gone ahead and gotten Moss access to some sort of small arms armorer's course, run by the local firearms advocacy group. It was a civilian organization, so it was mainly geared towards teaching civilians how to maintain their personnel firearms, but most of the concepts could be applied to military firearms, which is why Moss was participating. It was mostly a 'self-study' sort of thing, though it had plenty of videos for Moss to peruse through. Still, it wasn't perfect, hence the need to look at the manual.

Reaching the last page, Moss sighed and dismissed the screen. Either he had missed the instructions, or he had simply failed to understand them. Not that it really mattered either way. Even if he could figure it out, he didn't exactly have a rifle on hand to test it out. Most of the firearms had been checked out as the company, at least part of it, had gone to the range to get some live fire training done before the replacements finally arrived and they could begin platoon and company-sized maneuvers. Moss supposed he should have gone with them, but as the acting armorer, his place was here inside the armory, at least for now. He'd have his chance to shoot later.

Not that he was complaining, mind you, about not being able to go shooting with everyone else. In fact, he actually kind of preferred it. Moss had discovered that, of all things, at some point he had picked up a bad flinch everything he heard a gunshot. His aim had been bad enough as it was; flinching every time he pulled a trigger just made things so much worse and the last thing Moss needed was to embarrass himself in front of the entire company. Moss was useless enough as it was; there was no need to reinforce that fact.

Sighing to himself once more, Moss spun around in his chair a couple of times, then glanced at the clock. The company would be returning soon to turn in their firearms, at which point Moss would actually have something to do. In the meantime though...

Reaching into his shoulder pocket, Moss pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He hated spending money, especially on shit like this, but honestly, he was starting to feel embarrassed, mooching off everyone else like he was some damn leech.

"You know, they say those things will kill ya."

Just barely managing to avoid jumping, Moss glanced at the armory window where Fish was standing, staring pointedly at the cigarette in Moss' hand.

"Would that really be so bad?" Moss replied without thinking, and then froze.

Fortunately, Fish didn't seem to notice.

"Give me one, will ya?" he asked and Moss tossed the pack over to Fish, who extracted one for himself.

Pulling out his zippo lighter, which Moss had bought one for himself because zippos were cool, he helped light the cigarette for Fish before recovering all his stuff.

"You guys done already?" he asked, gesturing at the unloaded rifle Fish had lying on the counter.

Fish shrugged.

"I shot my four mags, figured I was done," he said. "My aim's been shit since I got back from Actium, figured I'd compensate through volume instead. Didn't really work but, whatever. It's not like having good aim against the Covenant really changes anything, so why fucking bother?"

Moss nodded, not really paying attention as he was too busy checking Fish's rifle back in. Cycling the bolt a couple of times to make sure the rifle was actually empty, he peered into the chamber.

"What, you don't clean your weapon anymore either?" he asked, trying to keep his voice mild so as to not accidentally trigger Fish.

"What? Oh, come on Moss, don't be like that."

Moss shrugged. "Just saying: I cleaned all of these weapons last night in anticipation of range day. These rifles were spotless. And technically speaking, the rules say you got to return these weapons in the same condition, if not better, than they were issued."

Fish gave him a halfhearted glare. "I think you're taking this armorer's job just a bit too seriously Moss."

"How so?"

"You're acting just as much as a dick as an actual armorer would be."

That gave Moss pause. Was he really? It was hard for him to tell sometimes but if that was true...

"Fine. I'll take it. But just this once! Next time, I'm calling Stalgis over and we'll have him inspect the rifle and see what he thinks," Moss warned.

Fish groaned. "Great."

Releasing the bolt and riding the handle forward to ensure the bolt was closed, Moss closed the dust cover and dry fired the rifle so the internal hammer wasn't cocked back. Flicking the selector switch to 'safe,' he quickly scanned the rifle back into the system before putting it inside the cart sitting next to him so he could put it away later.

"Mags?"

Fish calmly plopped the four rifle mags that had been issued to him onto the counter.

"That should be it, right?" Fish anxiously asked.

"I think so," Moss distracted replied as he doubled checked to make sure the magazines were empty. "I'll see you later dude."

As Moss moved to put away the magazines, he heard Fish start to walk away and he looked up, only to spot something on the screen of his computer. "Yo, FISH!"

Fish stopped and walked back to the counter. "What's up bro?"

"Uh, says here you also got issued a M6G pistol and two magazines dude," Moss reported, flipping the screen around so Fish could see for himself.

He watched as Fish stare at him blankly before a look of realization crossed his face.

"Ah, shit!" Fish yelped, slapping his forehead. He quickly reached into the assault pack he was wearing on his back and pulled out the sidearm, which he promptly unloaded. "Sorry bro. It's this new squad leader bullshit: I forgot I get issued a sidearm now."

"Yeah, I had the same problem when I got promoted," Moss agreed as he grabbed one of the magazines and started unloading it. He'd keep the ammo with him for now before returning them to the munitions depot later; for safety reasons, ammo was _not_ stored inside the armory.

"I know, right? Like, why the hell would I want to carry this piece of junk and all its weight, when I could just carry another two or three rifle magazines which would be far more versatile?"

"Yeah," Moss absentmindedly agreed. "Yeah, I had the same problem. I found it to be more of a pain than it was worth when I was on Actium - "

'_Where Pip died.'_

All of a sudden, Moss found he just couldn't speak as he abruptly remembered what had happened there. His eyes began to burn, and he quickly turned away so Fish wouldn't see.

Fortunately, Fish had been too distracted by his sidearm to notice anything was amiss. Racking the slide a couple of times, he finally locked it back and slapped it onto the counter.

"Anyways, here you go," Fish said. "Sorry about that. _Now_ that should be everything."

Moss nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Taking the pistol, he scanned it back into the system and tossed it into the cart. Forcing a smile onto his face, Moss waved and watched as Fish walked away. That was a close one...

_BANG._

Moss couldn't help but jump as someone smacked his window, and he looked around wildly, only to see Ferguson standing there with an apologetic look on his face.

"Sorry," he began. "Didn't mean to scare you."

"You didn't scare me," Moss quickly retorted. "You just... uh... ... SO! What's up?"

"So, I was just talking to Mbautu. You know, from... I guess its 3rd Platoon now," Ferguson said, obviously choosing not to comment on Moss' slip up. "And guess what? He told me the Deep Sixers were playing at the Blue Oyster tonight!"

Moss stared blankly at him.

"The who, the what, and the where?" he asked when he realized Ferguson was waiting for a response.

Ferguson looked disappointed. "The Deep Sixers man. Its... it's a band. You know, music? You do listen to music, right Moss?"

"No Fergs, I have no idea what you're talking about," Moss sarcastically replied. "What is this... musik? music? you speak of?"

Ferguson grinned.

"Well, at least that hasn't changed," he noted without elaborating. "Anyways, according to Mbautu, tickets are free. So... I was thinking: you, me, Fish. We're going out tonight baby!"

Moss automatically felt himself freeze, and his heart started racing, though he couldn't figure out why.

"'Go out?'" he repeated. "Uh... I don't know about that Fergs."

"Oh come on Moss," Ferguson said, practically begging. "It's the Deep Sixers! Look, I know you've never been the most sociable person, but since you've been back, you've practically turned into a hermit."

Had he? Moss honestly hadn't noticed.

"Look," Ferguson continued. "I don't want to pressure you into doing anything you're not comfortable with, but surely you've got to be tired of just sitting in your dorm room night after night doing... I don't know, jerking off?"

"I don't... _just_ jerked off," Moss sheepishly protested.

Ferguson waved his hand dismissively.

"Not the point. Look, all I'm asking is that you come out with us and have a drink for _one_ night. And then, that'll be it." Ferguson stared at him and Moss wasn't sure, but was Ferguson trying to do some puppy eyes? If so, he was failing. Miserably. "Come on Moss, it'll be fun."

Moss hesitated. Honestly, all he could think about was how crowded and how loud the place was going to be, neither of which sounded very "fun" to him.

At the same time though, he could see how hopeful Ferguson was and the last thing Moss wanted to do was disappoint him. That, coupled with the knowledge that Ferguson was leaving soon and that Moss didn't want people to think there was actually anything _wrong_ with him...

"One drink?" he finally asked.

"At least one," Ferguson amended. "I know you're not much of a drinker, but at least you can watch us drink. Or at least, Fish. Maybe you can finally find out why we call him Fish?"

Moss sighed. This still didn't seem like a good idea, but then again, what choice did Moss have?"

"Alright," he began.

"Fine."

**xxx**

This was a bad idea.

That was all Moss could think about as he stared at the bar slash cub slash whatever the hell the difference was. Ferguson had insisted they leave the base early so they could get here before the rush, and it appeared to have paid off as it wasn't as crowded as Moss would have thought, but still.

What was he doing here? Moss was not a people person. To call him an introvert would have been putting it mildly. He didn't belong in a place like this.

Still. Moss was many things, but flaky was not one of them. He had agreed to this, and he would commit to it.

"Come on," Ferguson urged. "Let's get a table."

They walked through the front doors. After briefly confirming that all three of them were eighteen years of age on the standard calendar, they walked inside. As they did, Moss did his best to follow in Ferguson's and Fish's shadow without looking like he was. Based on how confidently they were walking, it was clear to Moss both Ferguson and Fish had been here many a times and thus, knew their way around. Moss, however, had not, but at the same time, he didn't want to make it seem like he was a complete virgin, so he did his best to keep his head up and his eyes forward, even if all he wanted to do was look around all over the place like he was some damn tourist.

Ferguson and Fish led Moss over to a small booth, and Moss couldn't help but wonder if it was "their" booth. That's what people always had in the movies, right? A booth or a table to call their own?

At any case, both Ferguson and Fish threw themselves into the seats, and Moss hastily followed suit, finding himself sitting next to Ferguson.

"Excellent," Ferguson said appreciatively. "Got some of the best seats in the house. Man, are we lucky or what?"

"Yeah, whatever," Fish dismissively said and to Moss' surprise, somewhat grumpily. He had thought Fish had come here of his own accord but from the sounds of it, Ferguson had dragged him along too. "I need to get a damn drink already. Starting to get the shakes."

He lifted his hand and sure enough, Moss could see his hand was trembling ever so slightly.

"Yeah Fish, you... you might to get that checked out," Ferguson noted. "That's not a good sign."

"Whatever man," was all Fish said before he walked off, presumably to get himself a drink.

Ferguson watched him go before turning to Moss.

"Well, what you think?" he asked. "Not bad, huh?"

Moss glanced around. When Ferguson had mentioned that the Blue Oyster was a bar, Moss had automatically assumed it was some 'hole-in-the-wall' joint, like it was in the movies. As it turned out, it kind of was only, this place was far shittier than Moss had imagined. But, Ferguson and obviously Fish seemed to like it, so Moss decided at the very least, he'd try to give it a chance.

"Yeah. It's... something," Moss replied.

Fortunately, Ferguson didn't seem to notice his non-answer.

"Hey, I gotta hit the head. Why don't you go order yourself a drink? Bar's over there; self-serve style."

Not really interested, but feeling like he had no choice, Moss nodded. Climbing to his feet, he waited until Ferguson had left, before walking over to the bar.

To his surprise, there was no bartender at the bar, just a bunch of screens with menus on them, which kind of disappointed Moss. There was always a bartender in the movies. He supposed it made sense in some ways: between two concurrent wars and the massive casualties the Covenant was inflicting, manpower was becoming an issue and a lot of service jobs were getting replaced by AIs. Moss supposed the food industry was only the latest victim in these cuts.

Pulling up a bar stool in front of one of the screens, Moss began looking it over to see what they had. Honestly, he had no real desire to have anything, but he knew if he returned to the table without a drink, Ferguson was going to kill him. So, to prevent the headaches that would arise from that, Moss carefully considered his options.

As he perused the menu, looking for something that sparked his interest, a large man slid into the seat immediately to his right. Through the corner of his eye, Moss absentmindedly noted that instead of grabbing a menu, the man appeared to be staring at him, with an odd expression on his face. It honestly made him feel a bit uncomfortable, but he did his best to ignore the man. That is, until the man spoke up.

"Jackalope, huh?" the man commented, and Moss could see the man was staring at the deployment patch Moss had sewn on the shoulder of his right sleeve. "You were part of the 222nd Airborne?"

"Yeah," Moss said shortly, hoping that would be enough to satisfy the man. Unfortunately, it wasn't.

"If I recall correctly, wasn't the 222nd destroyed on Actium?" the man asked, and Moss barely managed to hide his flinch at the reminder. "Fighting must have been pretty bad for that to happen."

"Yes, it was," Moss bluntly stated, hoping the man would pick up on his hint and drop the subject.

"Yeah," the man continued, and Moss began to wonder whether he should simply ignore the man, or walk away. "I know all about the 222nd. I knew someone who was assigned there. Perhaps you knew her."

Moss decided not respond. He wasn't interested in continuing this conversation but at the same time, he wasn't interested in getting yelled at by Ferguson. So he quickly chose a drink at random and watched as, at the other end of the bar, a glass bottle rose up from behind counter and shot down the length of the table, stopping right in front of him. Moss grabbed it, and started to walk away when the man's next words stopped him short.

"Her name was Piper Poblede. She was assigned to the 131st Engineer Battalion, 3rd Brigade. But you already knew that, didn't you Moss? After all, you were her squad leader. Her 'friend.'"

Moss stiffened and slowly turned around. For the first time since this conversation began, he took a good look at the man. The man was dressed in a simple light blue button down with khaki cargo pants. His hair was shaved down to the scalp, making Moss wonder if he had just graduated from one of the training camps nearby. The one thing that really caught Moss' attention was the size of the man: he was easily twice Moss' size, with biceps the size of his head. Normally that would have put Moss on edge, but he was too distracted by the nagging sensation that... he knew this man. They had never met, Moss was sure, but Moss had seen him before. In like a picture or something. But where?

"Who the hell are you?" Moss demanded to know.

The man grinned, but there was no joy in it.

"Ajax Svarog."

* * *

For those of you who don't know who Ajax Svarog is, he has appeared in my other stories before. Specifically chapter 1 of _Missing in Action_ and the second half of chapter 36 _Battle: Actium_. I highly recommend you look him up so you can figure out what's coming next.

Author's Note

Something I wanted to expand a bit here: what a "group" is in the military.

I did a quick overview of army units and how fit in the chain in terms of size in my author's notes for chapter 17 of _Battle: Actium_, but one of the units I didn't touch on was the "group," mainly because it's not used very often for combat units, and its size and composition is dependent on whom you ask. (Note: I'm only talking about the ground unit known as "group." There are units called "groups" in aviation units, including Air Force, Naval, and Marine, but their size depends on the organization in question. Also, I'm only talking about group in the English speaking world.)

First off, there are two units that use the title group: a regular "group" and an "army group." An army group is a massive organization, and sits closer to the top in terms of size. Usually, army groups consist of several field armies. Army groups were fielded by both the British and American armies during World War II. Some of the more famous army groups include the 21st Army Group, commanded by British general, Field Marshall Bernard Montgomery (which was in charge of operations such as Operation Neptune, Operation Market Garden, and Operation Varsity,) and the Twelfth Army Group, commanded by American general, General Omar Bradly (of which, the American Third Army, commanded by then-Lieutenant General George S. Patton, was part of.)

A regular "group," on the other hand, generally sat between a "regiment" and a "brigade" in size. During WW2, a number of cavalry regiments were reflagged as "Cavalry Groups." Equipped with M8 "Greyhound" armored cars, M3 "Stuart" light tanks (later replaced by M5A1s,) they usually consisted of two squadrons (the cavalry equivalent of an infantry battalion,) and were assigned directly to individual field corps to act as their reconnaissance element.

In the modern US Army, however, groups have kind become like regiments in the sense they're more administrative units than anything. For example, all Army Special Forces teams are assigned to different Special Forces groups that focus on a specific region in the world (examples include the 1st Special Forces Group which has a focus on the Pacific region, 5th Special Forces Group which has a focus on the Middle East, and 10th Special Forces Group which has a focus on Europe.) Other Army groups include: ordnance groups (like the 52nd Ordnance Group, which is one of two explosive ordnance groups responsible for all US Army EOD companies,) psychological operations groups (examples: 4th and 8th Psychological Operations Groups which are both assigned to Army Special Operations Command,) and regional support groups.

For the purpose of this fic, however, I'm using a group as a unit that's bigger than a brigade combat team, but smaller than a division, mostly because there doesn't actually seem to be one like that in real life. (I know, it's all very confusing.)

As mentioned in the chapter itself, what I was thinking was that due to heavy casualties, the UNSC Army would transfer several "Army Airborne Groups" (which don't exist in real life) to the Marines in order to replace their "Marine Expeditionary Brigades" which are sometimes assigned to MEFs. I'm not a military strategist, so I don't really know how well this would work in real life. I also don't know how an Airborne unit would be organized to include vehicles (I tried to copy the Russian VDV organization, but it didn't really fit,) but as it's not really important, I just copied the TO&E of a US Army Stryker Brigade instead (hence the tank company belonging to the RSTA squadron.)


	5. Chapter 4

Hi Broman, welcome back! (Or Brodude, as you're apparently calling yourself now [I hope that's you because otherwise, this will be rather awkward,]) thanks for the reviews!

Yeah, I honestly didn't expect too many people to be interested in this story and I don't blame them: Halo is very much about the action and there's none to be found in this story. However, I wanted to write this story for two reasons:

1\. I feel even fanfiction writers should branch out and try something different every now and then, just to keep things fresh.

2\. I feel like it's important to show that, even though the shooting may have stopped, for some soldiers, the battle never really ends.

Anyways, I'm glad to see you here, however if it's action you want, maybe check out my other story, _Gears of War: Last Hope_, which is a GOW/Halo crossover (so, maybe not exactly what you're looking for, but it's got a lot of fighting.)

* * *

**Chapter 4**

**The Blue Oyster, Katara City, Skopje  
November 5, 2545  
2020**

Moss' face hurt. His left eye was swelling up, his jaw was badly bruised, and he was pretty sure his nose was broken, causing warm blood to spill all over his shirt.

How did he get in this position again?

Oh right.

He went to a bar.

Should have expected it really. After all, how many times in the movies did the protagonist go to a bar and a bar fight _not_ break out?

Though, to be fair, even if Moss had known a bar fight was going to break out, he could have never predicted he'd be involved. But then, he never expected to see _him_ here either.

Who was he again?

Oh right. Pip's husband. Specifically, her widower.

Great.

"You were supposed to have protected her!" Ajax was screaming, even as he lifted Moss up by the collar and slammed him onto the surface of the bar, knocking over a couple drinks. Moss could hear them shattering on the ground. "How come you're alive and she isn't? You son of a bitch!"

Moss wanted to object to that last insult. His mother wasn't a bitch, thank you very much. She was a lovely woman, and her eldest son shouldn't have been a reflection of her personality. But as soon as he opened his mouth, instead of words, blood began dribbling out of his mouth.

Oh yeah, he had bitten his tongue when Ajax sucker punched him in the mouth. He had forgotten about that.

"Fuck you, you little prick!" Ajax continued to scream, even as he delivered punch after punch into Moss' face. "It should be you in the ground, not her!"

Well, Moss couldn't really disagree with that, now could he? After all, he'd been thinking the same thing for weeks now.

Still, he supposed he should have been trying to protect himself, but even if Moss had wanted to, there was no way he could have. Ajax was just way too big, and way too angry for Moss to do anything about it. So he laid there and just took the beating.

"You fucking motherfucker!"

There was a loud crack as one of Moss' bones broke. Which one, he couldn't even say. Maybe it was his nose. Either way, Ajax was going to break his knuckles if he kept going like this. Moss needed to put an end to this. He feebly raised his arms and tried to get Ajax to stop, and there was no universe where that should have worked, but somehow, it did. Ajax immediately stopped punching him.

But as Moss struggled to open his swollen eyes, he realized it probably wasn't anything Moss did that caused Ajax to stop. Rather, it probably had more to do with the gun that was being jammed into the base of his skull.

"Fucking let him go, right now, you fucking cunt," Ferguson demanded, sounding more pissed than Moss had ever heard him before. He jabbed his pistol (a Cavera PX40 subcompact pistol chambered for 10mm Auto, Moss' brain helpfully supplied) further into Ajax's skull for emphasis. It didn't help.

"Do you know who the fuck I am?" Ajax growled, still holding onto Moss.

"Yea. Some fucking 'slick sleeve motherfucker' who got the stones to face us, but ain't got the stones to face the Covies."

"Fuck you," Ajax snapped.

"Get in line mate." Somehow, despite having a gun pointed at someone's head, Ferguson managed to sound bored. "Now, let him the fuck go, or you get to find out what it feels like to breath out of an extra hole in your head."

Ajax finally did.

"Step back," Ferguson demanded and waited, pistol in hand, until Ajax did just that. "Fish, grab Moss."

Moss warily eyed Ajax, but Ajax didn't move as Fish grabbed Moss and helped him to his feet. As they moved away though, Moss heard Ajax call out, "You better watch your back Moss."

Without warning, Fish whirled around so suddenly, he almost knocked Moss over.

"Listen _bro_," he said in a surprisingly vicious voice. "Let me break it down for you: I ever see you come near my boy Moss here again, I'm gonna skull fuck you to death then I'm going to take that fuckstick you call a face and make it into a bowl so I gots something to hold my milk when I'm eating my Wheaties in the morning. You got me?"

Fish jerked towards Ajax, as if daring him to throw a punch, and Moss warily glanced at him. Fish was one of the chillest people Moss had ever met. For him to have another outburst like that, it was...disturbing.

He wasn't given long to dwell on it. Without waiting for a response, Fish turned around, grabbed Moss, and half-dragged him out of the bar, Ferguson trailing behind them, gun in hand.

As soon as they were outside, Fish handed Moss off to Ferguson.

"Come on Moss, you got to sit down," Ferguson ordered as he helped Moss to the ground. "Fish? Go find a medic and some MPs. Maybe they'll be able to catch that motherfucker who did this."

MPs? Oh boy, that would be bad news for Ajax.

Moss opened his mouth to protest, but Ferguson quickly silenced him.

"Don't say anything Moss," Ferguson insisted. "Just rest up a bit. Fish, make it quick."

"Right," Fish muttered and Moss awkwardly turned and watched him disappear into the night. A clicking noise however drew his attention back to Ferguson.

"Look at me directly Moss," Ferguson ordered and Moss heard another click before he finally realized what was going on.

"Pictures for the scrap book?" Moss mumbled and then snorted in amusement as his own joke.

"No, pictures for evidence," Ferguson snapped. "That lousy motherfucker is going down. Assault and battery. Asshole. And who the fuck was he anyways?"

"Ajax," Moss mumbled.

"Who?"

"Ajax Savrog," Moss repeated in a louder voice. "He is... or rather was..."

Moss coughed as he felt his throat abruptly tighten up.

"Pip's husband," he finally managed to rasp out.

Ferguson looked dumbstruck. "Oh. Shit."

"Yeah."

Ferguson quickly sat down on the ground next to Moss.

"Guess she never took his last name, huh?" was all he said.

Moss mutely shook his head.

"She ever tell you why?"

All of a sudden, Moss felt really tired.

No. That wasn't the right word.

Drained.

He felt absolutely drained, like all the energy had just been sucked out of him, and he had no idea why.

"I don't want to talk about her," was all he could mutely managed.

"Okay," Ferguson softly said. Moss could see him staring at him.

Without warning, Ferguson reached over to Moss' shoulder pocket and pulled out the pack of cigarettes stashed there. Pulling one out, he lit it, and handed it over to Moss.

"Probably shouldn't be enabling you like this," Ferguson admitted, "but you look like you could use one."

Moss nodded, and he could see Ferguson watching him carefully as he took a draw.

"When'd you start by the way?" he asked.

"Smoking, I mean," he clarified.

Moss shrugged. Honestly, he couldn't remember anymore. It was probably during Newsaka, but at this point, that campaign felt so long ago to Moss, he barely remembered it. It probably should have scared him, the realization that a single day in his mind felt like a year now, but frankly, he just couldn't bring himself to care anymore.

For a few moments, they just sat there, watching as civilians and cars drive past them.

"Guess he blames you for her death, huh?" Ferguson abruptly said.

Moss shrugged.

"Guess so," he whispered.

He could see Ferguson glancing at him.

"Well, he's a fucking idiot then," he announced. "You didn't kill Piper, the Covenant did. Why's he taking it out on you!?"

"You don't know what happened Fergs," Moss whispered.

"I know - "

"You _don't_ know what happened," Moss repeated in a stronger voice. "_No one_ does. Only me. Because I was the only one who saw it."

Moss could feel Ferguson boring holes into the side of his head with his stare.

"Moss," he slowly began. "You don't blame yourself for Piper's death, do you?"

Moss found he couldn't look at Ferguson. Instead, he took what was left of his cigarette and jammed it into the pavement, extinguishing it. Despite having just finished one, Moss found he was desperately craving for another, so he reached for his pack again but Ferguson intercepted his hands.

"Moss," he said gently. "What happened to Piper was not your fault. You know that, right?"

"I know," Moss whispered back and he felt Ferguson releasing his hands.

"Good," Ferguson began, "because - "

"But Norén?" Moss interrupted. "Griffin? Roer? The jury is still out on them."

Out of the corner of his eye, Moss could see Ferguson running a hand through his hair.

"Jesus Christ Moss," Ferguson groaned. "I will never understand how someone as smart as you can be so stupid sometimes. You're as just as much to blame for their deaths as I am. Which is to say, not at all. And don't even try to deny it or claim I don't know what happened. Maybe I don't, but I do know you. And this is not your fault."

Ferguson paused and Moss could feel his eyes on him once more.

"Is this why you didn't fight back?" he unexpectedly asked.

This time, Moss did look up.

"What?"

"When Ajax was attacking you," Ferguson elaborated. "You didn't fight back. At all. Why?"

Moss snorted.

"In case you didn't notice Fergs, the dude was twice my size," he pointed out.

"So?"

"So... what chance did I have?"

Ferguson sighed. "Moss, I've see you go hand to hand against Brutes before. And they're at least three times bigger than Ajax is."

"That's great Fergs," Moss sarcastically commented. "But what you also fail to note is that I promptly got my ass kicked each and every time."

Ferguson waved his hand dismissively. "Not the point. The point is, despite knowing you were outmatched, despite knowing you were going to get your ass kicked, you still. Fought. _Back_. Why didn't you here?"

"Ajax sucker punched me."

"Wasn't a knockout blow."

"Ajax wasn't trying to kill me."

"You didn't know that."

Moss opened his mouth, but found he couldn't think of any more excuse... reasons for his inactivity.

He could feel Ferguson watching him closely.

"Moss, do you think about death?" he asked.

Despite himself, Moss couldn't help but laugh.

"Fergs, we're soldiers fighting in the worst and most destructive war humankind has ever seen in all of her history," Moss pointed out. "_Of course_ I think about death."

"Yeah, but that's death out in the field, by the enemy's hand," Ferguson retorted. "I'm talking about death here, in the garrison." He hesitated. "By your own hand."

Moss stared at Ferguson.

"Of course not," Moss hissed, and he tried to make it sound like he was offended.

Ferguson gave a sigh of relief.

"Good. That's good," he said, before looking around the street. "Man, where the hell is Fish? He should have been back by now. How long does it take to run back to base and go grab a medic anyways?"

"Maybe he forgot," Moss suggested.

He could see Ferguson shaking his head.

"To think, he was one of the most reliable soldiers around. Now he keeps forgetting shit. It's almost like he doesn't care anymore."

Moss nodded, then shrugged. He was hardly in any condition to judge anybody.

Ferguson suddenly cleared his throat, catching Moss' attention once more.

"Moving onto something else real quick," he began. "You might have noticed but, uh, I may or may not have pulled a gun on Ajax."

Moss thought about it, then nodded. He had noticed.

"Right. Um." Ferguson reached up and awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck. "That's, uh, not _exactly_ an authorized firearm. I'd, um, appreciate it if you didn't tell anyone that I, uh, have it."

Moss thought about it for a moment, then nodded his head. Sure, he could do that.

"Thanks," Ferguson said, sounding relieved but truth be told, Moss was no longer paying attention. He was just glad they were no longer talking about himself. Hopefully, Ferguson would be satisfied by all the white lies Moss had given him, and he would stop asking Moss uncomfortable questions about himself, and Moss could forget this night ever happened.

**xxx**

"So... why didn't you fight back?" Grant asked and Moss let out a loud sigh. He just couldn't escape it, could he? Of course, he supposed that was to be expected when he showed up with two freaking black eyes to a therapy session.

"Like I told Ferguson, sir, Ajax wasn't trying to kill me," Moss replied with forced patience. "He was just... bereaved. He needed an outlet for his grief and I just so happened to be an easy target."

"And you're... okay with this?" Grant pressed. "From my understanding, you're not pressing charges?"

Moss gave an indifferent shrug.

"He had to get his anger out in some way," Moss truthfully said.

"And somehow you're a better target than say... a punching bag?"

That gave Moss pause.

"He probably needed something that could react," Moss finally said. "It was probably always going to be a person he attacked.

"And the fact that person just happened to be you... and you have no problem with?"

"Better me than anyone else," Moss reflexively replied.

"And why do you think that?"

Moss took a moment to consider his answer.

"Because I can handle it," he finally said.

"How so?"

"I've taken a few punches before," Moss replied. "I've been in a fistfight and I know what to expect, and I don't mind getting hit. So, that makes more qualified than most. It's why it had to be me."

"Hm. That's very noble of you Moss."

"...thanks?" Moss awkwardly replied. "I guess?"

"You're welcome," Grant sincerely replied and for a moment, Moss thought that was the end of it. Then -

"It's just... it's interesting to me Moss, because in the nearly two months we've known each other, you've been particularly insistent that you're no hero."

Moss twitched. "I'm not."

"But... sacrificing your life and your comfort for the wellbeing of others... is that not the definition of what a hero does?"

Moss had to think hard on how to respond to that.

"People... even evil people are capable of doing heroic things," Moss finally decided. "But that doesn't change what they've done in the past. A person's worth is measured by the sum of their actions, not by the one or two good deeds they may do in the future."

"Well put," Grant said sincerely.

"Thanks," Moss warily replied as he waited for the other shoe to drop.

"But I do believe most people would say that... _you've_ done more good than bad in _your_ life. So... I guess by your own definition, you're, if not a hero, at least a very good person."

Moss sighed, suddenly feeling very drained. He was getting sick and tired of these word games. "Doc, why am I here?"

"Well, that's a rather interesting question. Why _are_ you here?"

"No, Doc," Moss said, somewhat impatiently. "I know why _I'm_ here. What I want to know is why I'm _still_ here."

"What do you mean?" Grant asked, sounding genuinely curious, but Moss didn't buy it for one second.

"You _know_ what I mean," Moss snapped. "Your job is to clear me for active duty. The Army and humanity as a whole need soldiers like me. Soldiers with experience. We both know that even if I was completely fucked up in the head, the Army would never allow you to grant me a Section 8. So, why don't we cut through the bullshit and you just sign the sheet of paper that says I'm okay to go back to the front? With all due respect, why are we wasting each other's time? Sir?"

"Moss, I _am_ genuinely curious: why do you think this is a waste of time?"

"Stop with the psycho-fucking-analysis Doc!" Moss snapped, agitatedly pacing the floor (when did he stand up?) "We both know what you people think of people like me: we're nothing but puppets! All we are, are fucking dots on a screen to be moved around and who stand there and fight your fucking battles for you! That's it! Why are you fucking pretending to care!? Just sign the fucking sheet of paper so I can get back to the field and finally fucking die in fucking peace - "

Moss abruptly cut himself off as he realized what he was doing and saying. And who he was saying it to.

"Sorry, sorry!" Moss hastily said, gasping for breath, feeling like he had just run a marathon as he turned away. His eyes were burning and he wasn't sure if he'd be able to stop himself from crying but either way, Grant didn't need to see him in this state.

"Sorry, sir. Doctor. Grant. I shouldn't have shouted. That was rude of me and you didn't deserve that."

Moss tried his best to avoid looking at Grant, as he didn't want to know how much trouble he was in for being so insubordinate and rude. To his immense surprise, he heard Grant shaking his head.

"No, no, don't apologize Moss!" he exclaimed. "This is good! Anger is good! Shout, scream, throw stuff around; go ahead it let it all out Moss! In fact, I rather you be angry than you continuing to try and feel nothing."

"What do you mean?" Moss asked between breaths.

He heard Grant sigh.

"Moss, I'm not even sure you're consciously aware of this yourself, but you are so desperately trying to avoid grieving, that you've been avoiding anything that could possibly evoke a strong emotional response, because otherwise, that just might lead you to acknowledging your own guilt. The problem about that is, you are suppressing _all_ your emotions. And something like that is just not healthy Moss. It just isn't. You spoke of Ajax releasing his anger in some manner, but you yourself haven't even been able to do that!"

"That's not true at all," Moss said, desperately shaking his head.

"No? Then why are you suppressing your anger right now?" Grant challenged. "The things I'm saying right now would make anyone else very upset. Hell, its make me upset just saying it. But you? You remain as stoic as ever. Why is that?"

Moss felt something inside of him snapping and he angrily whirled around.

"You don't know a goddamn thing about me, sir," he snarled. "I don't get angry because I DON'T FUCKING DESERVE - "

Moss froze. He hadn't meant to say that out loud. He slowly glanced at Russell, praying upon praying he hadn't heard that, but unfortunately Russell was looking at him with concern in his eyes.

"Moss," he quietly began. "What did you mean when - "

All of a sudden, the room felt very claustrophobic.

"SorryDocIgottogo," Moss blurted out and without waiting for permission, he flat out ran out of the room.

**xxx**

Moss stood outside the armory and took a deep breath as he fumbled to pull out a cigarette from the pack with his shaking hands. The armory was probably not the best place for him to have fled to, as it was probably one of the first places Russell would go to go looking for him, but it wasn't as if Moss had too many places to hide. And the armory was more isolated than his dorm would have been as the last thing Moss needed was for someone else to see him in this state.

As he lit his cigarette and did his best to calm down, he felt like punching himself. He shouldn't have said some of those things. He shouldn't have said _any_ of those things, especially to Russell. Now Russell was going to think he _meant_ it, and that was going to mean _more_ months of therapy and it was getting hard enough as it was trying to keep Russell at bay...

Fuck! Moss was a fucking moron. He should have just kept his fucking mouth shut and everything would have been alright. Fuck! Why did he have to ruin everything he fucking touched!? Somedays he couldn't help but wonder if things would have been better if he had simply never been _born_.

Agitatedly, Moss took a deep draw, only to start choking on the smoke. Hacking and coughing, Moss tried to regain his breath and as he did, he heard footsteps approaching him and he stiffened. Was that Russell? Did he find him already?

Moss cautiously glanced over his shoulder only to see Stalgis, not Russell, approaching him with a neutral expression on his face. Fuck, had Stalgis already heard what happened?

Moss couldn't help but shuffle uncomfortably as Stalgis approached. He wasn't sure who he would have preferred to see: Stalgis or Russell. On one hand, it was doubtful Stalgis would try and psychoanalyze him. On the other hand, as Moss' platoon sergeant, Stalgis had the authority to very severely punish Moss for his insubordination. In this situation, Moss really couldn't decide what would be worse.

Stalgis walked right up to Moss and stopped right in front of him.

"Sergeant," Stalgis began, and Moss mentally braced himself for the worst. "Think I could get a cigarette?"

Moss stared at him. That was... that was probably the last thing Moss had expected Stalgis to say. Had... had he not heard what had happened yet?

"Sergeant?" Stalgis prompted and Moss jumped.

"Uh... right. Here you go Sergeant," Moss stammered as he pulled out his pack and handed one off to Stalgis.

"Thanks," Stalgis said.

Moss stared at Stalgis as Stalgis stared at him with an expectant look on his face. He got his cigarette. Was Stalgis expecting Moss to confess to something?

"Sergeant. You got a light?"

Moss blinked.

"Oh! Um... sorry," Moss stuttered as he pulled out his lighter and watched as Stalgis leaned forward and ignited the end of his smoke.

"Thanks," was all Stalgis said.

"You're welcome?" Moss asked, uncertain, and when Stalgis glanced at him with an eyebrow raised, Moss realized his mistake. "I mean... you're welcome Sergeant."

Stalgis merely grunted in acknowledgement and looked away.

Feeling rattled, Moss quickly lifted his own cigarette and took a draw to try and mask his embarrassment. For a long a moment, the two of them just stood there, smoking. As they did, Moss desperately tried to think of something to say to Stalgis, to at least try and fill the growing awkward silence, but nothing came to mind.

The problem was, despite having been Moss' platoon sergeant for quite some time now, Moss still didn't really know Stalgis very well. Stalgis was an... interesting character. He had been Moss' platoon sergeant when Moss first arrived to the unit, and despite both Newsaka and Actium, Stalgis had somehow remained in that position. It was a bit surprising to Moss, mostly because he didn't really think Stalgis was all that _good_ of a platoon sergeant.

That wasn't to say Stalgis was terrible at his job. As an administrator and organizer, he was unparalleled in the company. Moss remembered hearing back on Newsaka other platoons having issues with resupplies and logistics, but not in Moss' platoon, which was in no small part because of Stalgis. But a platoon sergeant was supposed to deal with more than just logistics: a platoon sergeant was also supposed to be an advocate for the men, watching out for them, taking care of them, and be someone the junior enlisted could go to if they had a problem, no matter what.

In _that_ aspect, Stalgis failed fairly hard. Stalgis was far from the most sociable NCO in the platoon, generally keeping to himself and not really talking or partaking in any major conversation with any of the men in the platoon. Personally, Moss never had any problems with that, but he knew some of the other guys had thought Stalgis to be arrogant and completely unapproachable, which obviously was a problem for a platoon sergeant.

Almost as if he could sense his thoughts, Stalgis unexpectedly turned to stare at Moss. Moss stared back and waited for Stalgis to say something, but he never did. Instead, he just stared and after a while, Moss started to feel uncomfortable. He opened his mouth to say something, but before he could, Stalgis beat him to the punch.

"Shen," he began, "have I ever told you how I joined the Army."

Moss blinked at the seemingly random question. "Uh, no Sergeant, I don't believe you ever did."

Stalgis nodded. "You're not from Mamore, so the name 'Stalgis' doesn't really mean much to you, does it?"

Moss shook his head, wondering where he was going with this.

Stalgis nodded, as if that was what he was expecting.

"Anyone from Mamore would know the name 'Stalgis,'" he continued, "because, you see, it's the last name of the current governor of Mamore. As well as that of the last _seven_ governors."

"Yes, my family has been in power for a very long time," Stalgis said, ignoring Moss' astonishment. "Since the founding of Mamore, in fact. Captain Theodore Ishmael Stalgis, my great great whatever, was the commander of the first colony ship to step foot on Mamore and claim her in the name of the UEG. As the leader of the expedition, it only seemed natural he would have served as the colony's first governor. After that though, I guess my family just didn't want to give up the title because the office of governor has been passed down from one generation to the next."

"Perhaps that's why Mamore has so many problems," Stalgis added. "Things never change and... people are just sick and tired of my family. Can't say I blame them honestly."

"Anyways, the point behind all this is, I want you to understand: when I say I had a very privileged childhood, that's an understatement. I was literally untouchable. I had everything I could ever need, and whatever I wanted, I got. Just like that," Stalgis said, snapping his fingers for emphasis. "I was above the law, and my parents made sure I knew it."

"But as you might imagine, such an attitude doesn't allow for a healthy childhood. I was, to be blunt, a little shit. Spoiled doesn't even begin to cover it. I walked around like I owned everything and anytime something didn't go my way, I'd go crying off to daddy and mommy."

Stalgis shook his head, and Moss could really tell he was embarrassed by his actions as a child.

"You aren't that bad now, if you don't mind me saying Sergeant," Moss said, trying to make Stalgis feel better. "So… you clearly realized your flaws and changed for the better. That's pretty impressive Sergeant. Not a lot of people can do that."

Stalgis snorted, and shook his head. "If only it had been that easy Sergeant," he softly said. "Unfortunately, people like me don't change unless there's a catalyst. And for me, one pretty bad accident changed everything."

"I was coming home from some party," Stalgis began. "I don't even remember what it was for, only I was probably acting like a jackass as usual, and ruining the fun for everyone else. At any case, I had also been drinking. A lot. I shouldn't have been going home alone, but because I was being such a dick, my date had ditched me, so I was alone. And I was driving."

"I thought all cars nowadays came with a safety feature where, upon detection of alcohol, the local area Superintendent would take control of the vehicle, preventing the intoxicated driver from driving," Moss pointed out, but Stalgis shook his head.

"Not my car," he replied. "I didn't like the idea of someone else driving my baby, so I had my mechanic rip it out. It's illegal to do, but again, I was above the law."

"At any case, I was behind the wheel, heading home to the grandiose and absurdly expensive house that served as both the governor's mansion and my family's ancestral home. The mansion sat by a lake because, of course it did, however, in order to accomplish that, one of the main roads had to be move so that it routed around the lake instead of crossing over it. As a result, there was a pretty sharp bend in the road that... you didn't want to be hitting at too fast of a speed. But... given that I was drunk... I had forgotten all about it..."

"It wouldn't have been so bad if I had been the only car driving on that particular stretch of road that night," Stalgis continued, his voice distant and his gaze staring out into the distance, focusing on nothing in particular. "But I wasn't. There was another car coming the opposite direction. And when I hit them, I drove them straight into the lake."

"I... I freaked the fuck out," Stalgis admitted. "And I defaulted to my general state of letting mommy and daddy dealing with it. So I left. Drove away like nothing had happened. And you know, I'll be honest, there are some days where, a very, very small part of me, wishes I had just kept driving."

"But I didn't. I don't know why. Something... compelled me to go back, to do the right thing for once in my shitty life. So I turned that car around and sped right back to the scene of the accident. But, by the time I got there, it was too late." Stalgis swallowed and Moss could see his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. "Car was gone, swallowed up by the lake. I would later find out there had been four people inside: a mother, a father, and their two twin sons. Age three. All drowned. The only person who survived was their five year old daughter, who only survived because she hadn't been wearing her seat belt, and was able to drag herself out of that car and up to the surface."

"And that's where I found her: laying on the shore, gasping for breath. But the problem was... she might have survived the _drowning_, but the lack of a seat belt had caused her to get really badly injured in the impact. And so... she was in bad shape. Really bad shape. I tried to help her but... I didn't know a thing about first aid or, or..."

"She died," he finished without any emotion. "In my arms, as I stared at her. Useless. The little boy who thought himself a man. The one who had put her there in the first place. And the entire time she laid there, dying, she was staring at me. Not out of hate, which I might have been able to handle, but out of confusion. Like, she couldn't understand why this had happened. Why she was being yanked from this world before she even had a chance to truly experience it..."

Stalgis shook his head, as if trying to shake off the shadows of his past

"My parents buried the incident," he reported. "It wouldn't have done for the public to know the governor's only son had just murdered five people, including three children. Because of that, I was never punished. I was never dragged in front of a judge and jury. I never saw the inside of a jail. I never lost everything. And even I knew how wrong that was. And that I was the only one who could do something about it. Colonial Government wouldn't do it because of my father's influence, but the UNSC? They didn't give a shit about what the colonials thought. They did their own thing."

"So I enlisted," Stalgis continued. "I figured... if justice wouldn't find me in the civilian world, maybe I could find justice out on the frontline. And maybe, in doing so..." Stalgis sighed. "Well, nothing I will ever do will ever absolve me of my crimes. There is no doubt about that. My victims are gone, and there is no way I could ever ask for their forgiveness, even if I deserved it. But maybe... just maybe..."

Stalgis trailed off, leaving Moss to simply stare at him. Moss had to be honest, he had no idea what to do with all this information Stalgis had just given him. Nor, what he should say in response.

"Sergeant, no offense," Moss finally managed to whisper. "But... why are you telling me all this?"

Stalgis turned to look at him, and Moss couldn't help but shiver at the dead expression on his face, and Moss suddenly realized that although many years had passed already, Stalgis was still suffering from the pain he had caused.

"I tell you this, Sergeant," he replied, his voice barely louder than a whisper, "because you think that what happened on Actium was your fault. As someone who really is guilt of some horrendous crimes, I'm here to tell you that, no: what happened on Actium was _not_ your fault."

"You don't know what happened on Actium," Moss immediately and angrily retorted, but then quickly caught himself. He needed to be calm. No emotion. Robotic. Just the facts. "With all due respect Platoon Sergeant, but I don't believe you know what happened on Actium."

"No, I don't," Stalgis said simply. "But I don't need to. It wasn't your fault Moss. It. Wasn't. Your. Fault."

Moss took a deep, raggedy breath. He didn't want to admit it, but Stalgis' words were bothering him more than he cared to admit. He needed Stalgis to stop.

"Sergeant," Moss quickly said, interrupting Stalgis. "I'm afraid you got it all wrong: I don't blame myself for anything," he said as strongly as he could. Perhaps if he said it with enough confidence, he- _Stalgis_ would believe him.

"Ah," was all Stalgis said. His mask was back on, so Moss couldn't tell if Stalgis believed him or not. "Then that makes you wiser than most of us."

Without warning, he dropped his cigarette to the ground and just before he stepped on it, Moss was startled to realize he hadn't seen Stalgis take a single puff from it during this entire conversation. Not even once. In fact, Moss was struggling to remember the last time he even saw Stalgis smoke.

Stalgis turned and caught Moss' eye.

"Good day Sergeant," he said, and then slowly walked away, leaving Moss alone with his thoughts.

As soon as Stalgis was out of earshot, Moss exhaled. Fuck.

He needed another cigarette.

* * *

1\. Slick Sleeve: this is a US Army and Air Force specific insult. Essentially the definition is the same in both services, but what the insult refers to differs slightly.

The USAF definition is as follows: in the Air Force (and formerly the Army, which is where I believe the Air Force obtain tradition in the first place,) enlisted airmen wear their rank insignia on the sleeves of their jackets just over their biceps. All airmen are expected to do this, however there is one Air Force rank that doesn't actually have a rank insignia affiliated with it: the rank of Airman Basic (pay grade of E-1.) Because there is no insignia to wear, those airmen wear their sleeves blank, or in "slick" configuration. Calling someone a slick sleeve is drawing attention to their lack of rank and more specifically, their lack of experience and authority.

The US Army definition is slightly different. As mentioned above, the Army used to wear their rank insignia on their sleeves, but when the Army switched to the ACU (Army Combat Uniform) in early 2005, they moved to a Velcro patch that was instead placed in the center of their chest. When that happened, the definition of slick sleeve changed to refer to a soldier's lack of deployment patch.

Basically, soldiers in the US Army are authorized to wear two unit patches. On their left shoulder, they wear the unit patch of their current unit. On their right, they wear the patch of the unit they deployed with into a combat zone with (i.e., their deployment patch.) The two patches aren't always the same. (So, for example, if a soldier had deployed to say, Afghanistan with the 82nd Airborne Division, but then upon returning stateside, transferred over to the 101st Airborne Division, he/she would wear the "Screaming Eagle" insignia on their left shoulder, while wearing the "All-American" patch on their right.) A soldier who's never been deployed will not have that second unit insignia on their right shoulder, leaving it empty. So, calling a soldier "slick sleeve" is basically referencing their lack of combat experience.

While both definitions may seem the same, the Air Force definition specifically refers to airmen who just graduated from tech school (kind of like the way "Boot" is used by the Marines,) whereas the Army can be applied to any Soldier, no matter their rank (as not everyone in the Army actually gets deployed to a combat zone.)

2\. Mamore: As mentioned in _Dr. Halsey's personal journal _(which was available with the limited and legendary editions of _Halo: Reach_,) an Insurgent managed to detonate a nuclear bomb inside the Haven arcology on the colony world of Mamore in 2511. Given that this appears to have been the only time Innies utilized a nuclear weapon in a terror attack, I felt that had to mean the Insurgent group on Mamore had to be rather strong, and I thought I'd offer up a small explanation as to why that might have been the case.

3\. Sergeant First Class Adrian Stalgis: was a character that was mentioned a few times in _Missing in Action_. Originally, he was supposed to play a much larger role than having his named dropped here and there, but I found I just couldn't figure out how to make him work. Rather than invent another character, I thought I would try and expand his character a bit more in this story.


	6. Chapter 5

Special thanks to Killerkitty641 and CommissarBS for leaving reviews last chapter. Unfortunately I don't have any direct responses to any of the comments you guys made as some of it will be answered in this chapter, and I don't want to give anything away!

* * *

**Chapter 5**

**Fort Glazunov, Katara Region, Skopje  
November 24, 2545  
1421**

Moss was not avoiding the psychiatrist. Just because Moss hadn't bothered to go see Doctor Grant Russell in... weeks, didn't mean Moss was avoiding the man. And if Moss was avoiding Grant, then it definitely wasn't because of the... incident that had occurred the last time they had seen each other.

No, Moss was _definitely_ not avoiding the psychiatrist. And the fact that he skipped out on the last two or three scheduled sessions was because he was too busy. Reorganizing the armory. For the third time in a row. And the fact that Moss had decided to avoid eating in the mess hall one day had nothing to do with the fact that Grant was just sitting there by the door, eating breakfast with some other dude. No, that was because Moss wasn't hungry that day. And the mere fact that Moss had turned around and started walking in opposite direction the other day on the parade grounds had nothing to do with the fact he had seen Grant walking towards him. It had everything to do with the fact Grant and Fish had been having a rather intense looking conversation, and Moss hadn't wanted to bother either of them.

No, Moss was absolutely, positively, _**not**_ avoiding the psychiatrist.

Unfortunately, apparently not everyone had gotten that memo.

"SERGEANT!"

Moss physically jumped. He had been sitting alone in the armory, trying to replace a spring inside the trigger group of one of the company's assigned MA37 rifles when he had heard the shout. Given how distracted he had been, Moss had not heard anyone enter the building, and was thus completely caught off guard when he looked up and saw Lancelot standing right in front of him, looking irritated.

"Captain, sir!" Moss blurted out as he hastily snapped to attention but Lancelot apparently wasn't in the mood.

"Sergeant Shen, what the fuck is your goddamn problem?" he snapped as he stalked forward until he was intruding into Moss' personal space. Lancelot may not have needed a cane to help walk around anymore, but that didn't mean he was one hundred percent. Even then, he still stood a good head and a half taller than Moss was, which caused adrenaline to start flooding his veins as he looked up at Lancelot and desperately tried to figure out why Lancelot would be upset at him.

"Sir?" was all Moss could think of to say.

Lancelot rolled his eyes.

"I'm talking about Colonel Russell, Sergeant," he snapped. "According to the Colonel, you haven't been by to see him in three weeks. _Three weeks!_"

Had it really been that long? Moss was honestly astonished to hear that. He didn't think he'd been avoi- _not avoiding_ Grant for three weeks now.

"Sir, I've been rather busy," Moss tried to feebly protest but Lancelot snorted

"Bullshit Sergeant: you've been avoiding the good doctor, haven't you?"

Moss tried to protest but before he could even say a word, Lancelot cut him off.

"Don't even try to deny it Sergeant, I can already see it in your face," Lancelot hissed. "Sergeant, do I need to remind you that unless Doctor Russell clears you for active duty, you're going to be stuck here, inside this armory, until the Army gets fed up and drums you out. Is that what you want, Sergeant Shen!?"

Moss sighed.

"No sir," he reluctantly replied.

"Good. In that case, Sergeant, unless Colonel Russell is some sort of fucking Innie and trying make you do something fucking illegal, I don't give a shit what your problem is: schedule another session, do exactly whatever the fuck he wants you to do so you can get cleared and return to active duty!" Lancelot snapped, but then took a deep breath and visibly calmed down. "I don't want to lose one of my best squad leaders Sergeant, okay?"

Moss almost snorted. He was far from one of Lancelot's best squad leaders and the fact that Lancelot was being so damn patronizing was almost insulting. Still, orders were orders and like the good little soldier he was, Moss shoved his ego to the side, stood up straight and barked, "Sir, yes, sir."

"Good." Lancelot backed up, allowing Moss to finally breathe again. "Get it done. Tomorrow. Is that understood?"

Moss sighed.

"Yes, sir."

**xxx**

At exactly oh nine hundred hours the next day, Moss found himself standing outside of Grant's door once more. He felt like he had butterflies in his stomach, his feet felt like they were made of lead, and he was trembling out of fear or adrenaline. Moss had no interest in being here, but he didn't exactly have a choice. He had his orders, and he didn't want to let Lancelot down.

Of course, Moss had already let everyone _else_ down, so what was one more person to add to the list?

Moss sighed. Gathering all of his courage, Moss lifted his hand and rapped on the door with his knuckles as lightly as he possibly could and waited.

...

Well, there wasn't a response so perhaps Grant wasn't it. Maybe Moss should try another -

"Come in!" Grant called out from his office.

...fuck.

Reluctantly, Moss wrenched open the door and walked it. The door closed behind him with a gentle click, but to Moss, it might as well have been the equivalent of a series of metals bars getting slammed shut behind him.

Doing everything in his power to delay this meeting for as long as possible, Moss quickly looked around the room, trying to see if anything was different from the last time they had seen each other. Unfortunately, it appeared that three weeks wasn't a long enough of a time for Grant to have decided to redecorate his office as everything was in the exact same place as it had been the last time Moss was here.

His plan foiled, he reluctantly turned to face Grant.

"Doctor Grant," Moss mutely greeted.

"Moss, good morning," Grant returned.

"Is it?" The words were out of Moss' mouth before he could stop them.

"Good, I mean," Moss clarified. "Is it?"

Rather than look upset or irritated at Moss' sarcasm, Grant looked intrigued.

"That's a fair point," Grant admitted. "I suppose the word 'good' is rather subjective, isn't it, and what I might consider 'good' could be entirely different from what you consider 'good.'"

Moss merely grunted, not that interested in that conversation.

Grant sighed.

"Moss, before we being, there's something I'd like to say."

"Doctor," Moss began, but Grant quickly held up his hand.

"I'm sorry Moss, I don't mean to interrupt, but I do need to say my piece first. If you don't mind?"

Moss reluctantly nodded. Might as well get Grant's lecture out of the way as soon as possible. Like removing a bandage: tear it off fast.

Grant sighed again.

"Well Moss, I just want to say: I apologize for my behavior the last time we saw each other."

Moss blinked in surprise. Did he somehow enter a parallel dimension? After all, it hadn't been Grant with the shitty attitude, it had been Moss.

"I was pushing you too hard," Grant continued. "I was trying to make you admit to something you were clearly not ready for and despite seeing how uncomfortable you were getting, I still tried to provoke you. And that was wrong of me to do so. So, I apologize for my actions last session, and I do hope you'll be able to forgive me one day, though I understand if you're not."

Moss reached up to awkwardly scratch the back of neck. The sincerity in Grant's voice was making him feel both uncomfortable, and ashamed of the things he had been accusing Grant of last time they had been together and as a result, Moss was finding it hard to meet Grant's eyes.

"That's alright, sir," Moss mumbled. "I forgive you now."

"Thank you Moss," Grant sincerely replied. "That means a lot to me, and I do hope my actions haven't caused any permanent damage in our relationship."

Moss shook his head, still unable to look up. He supposed now would be a good time to apologize for his _own_ actions, but Moss was just having a hard time putting it to words, and the moment quickly passed.

"Now... you were about to say something Moss before I so rudely interrupted?" Grant prompted.

Moss opened his mouth and then paused.

"Wasn't important, sir," he mumbled.

For some reason, Grant looked disappointed but he hid it well.

"Well then. Onto business then," he said with a soft smile. "So, during our little 'break,' I was thinking of ways to best help you tackle the issues that seem to be plaguing you, and in doing so, I came to a startling conclusion."

"And what's that, sir?" Moss asked after a moment's pause.

"That I've been approaching the situation all wrong."

"Sir?"

"This entire time I've been thinking that your... let's call it your 'reluctance,' for lack of a better word, to open up was simply the result of the horrors you undoubtedly saw while out in the field. And that, like me, perhaps you were a bit reluctant to have to relive them. However, the other day it suddenly occurred to me that... you had actually already told me the reason why you couldn't talk of what happened on Actium," Grant explained.

"I did?" Moss asked, confused. When or what did he say?

"You did," Grant confirmed. "The first time we met, you informed me that there were certain things about you that were classified. And that I wouldn't necessarily have the clearance to know."

Moss looked up, surprised. He had actually forgotten that was one of the excuses he had given Grant as to why he wouldn't have been able to talk about what happened on Actium.

"That's right, sir," Moss quickly confirmed, sensing an escape. "As you might imagine, it's been causing a number of issues."

"I can imagine," Grant sympathetic confirmed and making Moss feel slightly guilty for what he was doing. "Unfortunately, that means we've run into a bit of an impasse: without having the clearance to know what happened to you, I'm afraid I'm not sure how I can help you."

"So..." Moss began, feeling slightly hopeful. "Does that mean... we're done here? We're not going to be seeing each other anymore?"

Grant gave him a sad smile. "Not quite, I'm afraid. There is... one last thing I'd like to try first. I have a comrade, a friend even, who's assigned to ONI as an Army liaison. He's got about every single security clearance on this side of the galaxy. If there's someone who's able to get clearance to know the details behind your mission, it's him. I think you should talk to him."

Moss hesitated, feeling disappointed. For a moment there, he thought he was home free. Unfortunately, it was appeared as if the fates were conspiring against him.

Doing his best to mask his disappointment, Moss turned his attention to Grant's proposal. His initial instinct was to reject it right off the bat; it was difficult enough trying talk to Grant without actually talking to him. But to try and do the same to another person? And a complete stranger at that? Moss was simply not interested.

At the same time, Moss couldn't help but wonder what would happen to him if he simply said no. What Grant was proposing was similar to a treatment of sorts, right? And if he refused treatment, then what would happen to him? Would Grant declare him insane and have him committed somewhere? Or would they simply kick him out of the Army?

Plus, there was the fact that Grant had clearly gone out of his way to find said person for Moss to meet and while Moss would have preferred he hadn't, what was done was done, and it just wasn't in Moss' nature to disappoint people. Stupid guilt complex. So, really, what choice did he have?

"I... guess I could do that, sir," Moss reluctantly replied, somehow feeling like he was signing his own death warrant.

The hopeful look that appeared on Grant's face made him feel a little bit better about his decision, but only just.

"Excellent! Than you Moss," Grant sincerely said. "Are you available tomorrow at say, fourteen hundred hours?"

Moss shrugged. That was about as good of a time to meet as any.

"Then I suppose the only thing left to do is arrange the meeting place. Are you familiar with the Kenyan Bistro and Cafe on the corner of Northwood and 12th Street?"

Moss frowned.

"We're noting going to meet here?" he couldn't help but ask.

Grant shook his head.

"I'm afraid my friend will be in classified briefings all week, and tomorrow is the only time he's free. As you might imagine, he'd rather not spend it on a military base."

Great. Now Moss had to go out in public, get on a bus, and figure out where this place even was. Brilliant.

He was already regretting his decision.

"I'll figure it out, sir," was all Moss said.

"Wonderful! Well, unless you have something else you'd rather talk about, I do believe we're able to finish up early today. I'll see you tomorrow: fourteen hundred hours at the Kenyan Bistro and Cafe at Northwood and 12th Street."

Moss silently nodded. This was going to suck.

**xxx**

Moss glanced at the clock. Again. For the fifth time in the last seventeen minutes. He couldn't help it. He was worried about how this meeting was going to turn out. At this point in his life, he had to admit, he really hated meeting new people. That, coupled with the fact that this meeting was going to be all about himself, a subject he hated, left Moss feeling rather apprehensive, which in turn was causing him to be rather cranky. Which in turn was causing him to be rather distracted.

Moss had done his best to try and focus on something else. Anything else. He had gone running. Didn't help. He had tried watching a movie, but found he couldn't concentrate for more a few minutes. He had even tried looking up some porn on Waypoint, but not even that had done the trick.

Moss snorted. It was always a bad sign when masturbation lost its fun.

At any case, there was no point in denying it: this meeting was causing Moss great consternation, and until the meeting was done and over with, Moss simply wouldn't be able to focus on anything else. Like a giant scythe looming over his head, Moss wouldn't be free until he got out from underneath.

He sighed and pushed himself away from his desk. It would take him about thirty minutes to get to the meeting place. He might as well go ahead and leave now and if he was early, then he was early. Maybe it would make him seem like he wasn't dragging his feet.

Walking over to his closet, Moss reached for his boots and jacket before pausing. He wasn't sure exactly who he was meeting, but the impression he got from Grant, it was some sort of officer. So, Moss figured he better dress up a bit.

Ignoring his everyday jacket, Moss grabbed his slightly more formal field jacket. It was slightly more formal in the sense that it was actually clean and had all his unit patches attached, as well all his combat and skill badges, but it would have to do as Moss was definitely not breaking out his service uniform, much less his dress uniform.

He did, however, make sure to grab his maroon beret instead of the patrol cap he would normally wear.

Lacing up his boots, Moss headed for the door but before he could grab the handle, it abruptly opened.

"What the - oh, hey Moss."

"Hey Fish," Moss greeted as he stepped to the side to allow Fish entrance.

"Thanks," Fish replied as he stepped inside, throwing Moss a quick once over as he did. "You going somewhere?"

Moss shrugged. He didn't really want anyone to know where he was going, who he was meeting, and for what purpose as he didn't want anyone to think anything was wrong with him. "Just... out. You know, can't stay cooped up all day."

"I hear ya bro; it's a beautiful day outside. You shouldn't miss it," Fish cheerfully declared, causing Moss to do a quick double take.

"You seem... no offense Fish, but... you're oddly cheerful today," Moss noted. He couldn't help but subtly lean forward and give a good whiff. Nope: he couldn't smell any alcohol.

"Don't worry bro, I'm not drunk," Fish assured him. "And you're right: I am feeling good today. I dunno why."

"Oh, don't get me wrong," Moss hastily assured him. "Not saying it's wrong; you've been... somewhat grumpy and moody in the last few months, so I'm glad you're feeling better today. It's a good look for you."

"Thanks!" Fish said brightly. "And don't worry bro: I get what you mean."

Moss nodded, glad he hadn't offended one of his few friends left.

For a moment, Moss just stood there, trying to bask in Fish's cheer, but then he suddenly remembered where he was going and his mood plummeted.

"Well, as much as I'd like to stick around, I'm afraid I got to go Fish," Moss reluctantly said with a heavy heart. "I'll see you around."

Fish smiled and nodded, and Moss started to head for the door.

"Moss: wait."

Moss stopped in the doorway and turned around. "What's up Fish?"

For some reason, Fish had a rather odd look on his face. "Hey bro, I just wanted to let you know: you're a good person and an even better friend. No matter what, I'm really glad to have met you and... I just want you to know that."

Moss blinked in surprise.

"Thanks?" he said, uncertainly. "What, uh... well, I suppose you don't really need a reason, but... I'm curious as to what prompted this?"

Fish shrugged.

"You've been having problems," he said. "I've noticed. And I just wanted you to know that... well, I hope everything works out for you in the end."

"Yeah," Moss slowly said. "Same to you Fish. I mean, I hope everything works out for you."

"Oh, it will," Fish replied with a wink. "Trust me."

Moss nodded, then slowly shut the door behind him. Once he was safe, he reached up and scratched his head.

Well, that was weird. A nice distraction, however brief it was.

Moss let out another sigh as the enormity of what he was about to do struck him once more. Fuck.

Walking out of the building, he left the base, only to have the bus he needed immediately pull up. What the fuck?

Deciding that someone upstairs clearly wanted him to get to this meeting early, Moss sighed and climbed aboard. Fortunately, aside from two other passengers, the bus was mostly empty and Moss was able to grab a seat by the window. As the bus rolled down the street, Moss stared outside and tried to make his mind go blank, so as to not think about what was about to happen. Unfortunately, it didn't work, and by the time the bus arrived, Moss was starting to sweat.

As the bus pulled to a stop and the doors open, Moss thought about just sitting there, riding the bus around the city all day long, just to avoid going to this meeting, but somehow, he found himself automatically getting to his feet and walking off the bus, even though in doing so it felt like he was being led to the executioner's block. Before Moss could even think about climbing back onboard, the bus slammed its doors shut and sped away, leaving Moss in the dust.

Damn.

Finding the shop was easy, as it was right there in front of him. Finding the willpower to actually go inside though, did not come as easily. What the hell was he supposed to do? And did he really want to attend this meeting? What if he simply told Grant he couldn't find the place?

Unfortunately, a quick glance through the store front window showed that Moss hadn't been the only one to arrive early. Sitting near the back corner of the store, he spotted Grant and his friend. Grant's friend was sitting with his back turned, so Moss couldn't see who it was, but he could see Grant very clearly. And if Moss could see Grant, Grant undoubtedly could see him.

Shit.

Well, Moss supposed he had no choice now.

Gritting his teeth, Moss walked inside.

Making his way passed the various patrons, Moss headed towards the table Grant and his friend were. As he did, he saw Grant look up and suddenly spot him, causing a wide smile to cross over his face.

"Ah, Moss! Good timing!" Grant greeted as Moss reached them. "I was just wondering about you. Moss, this here is Colonel James Ackerson, the man I was talking about."

The man turned around and Moss recognized him as the same man Grant had been having breakfast with a few days ago.

"Colonel, this here is Sergeant Moss Shen."

"Sir," Moss said in greeting.

"Sergeant," Ackerson replied.

There was a long moment of awkward silence as Moss stood there, trying to figure out what to say whereas Ackerson seemed content to just sit there and study Moss. Grant looked at the two soldiers before standing up.

"Well, I'll leave you two to it," he said. "Moss, take a seat. If you need anything, well, it's a beautiful day today so I'll be right outside. Colonel. Moss."

"Sir," Moss said with a respectful nod and waited until Grant had walked away before sitting down.

For the moment, Moss just sat there, unsure of what to do. Was he supposed to start talking, or was Colonel Ackerson the one to kick things off? Ackerson _was_ the ranking officer here, so military protocol did dictate that Moss wait until Ackerson was ready to speak before saying anything. But, then again, what they were doing was so far removed from the norm, Moss wasn't sure the normal rules applied.

Then again, Moss had nothing but time so he figured he might as well just sit there and wait, just in case.

After a few more minutes of awkward silence where Moss did his best to avoid fidgeting, Ackerson suddenly spoke.

"So, Sergeant Shen," Ackerson began. "Colonel Russell tells me you're having difficulties opening up about your experiences on Actium because its 'classified?'"

At that, Moss immediately saw his opportunity.

"Sir, I want to apologize," Moss said. "I don't know what Grant..."

"Colonel Russell," he quickly corrected at the disapproving glare Ackerson sent his way, "has told you, but in my debrief, I was informed that whatever actions that I may or may not have undertook while fighting on Actium is so classified, well, with all due respect, sir, I'm not sure you'll have clear- "

"Operation White Knuckle."

Moss stopped mid-sentence and stared, open mouth at Ackerson as he calmly dipped the bag of tea in his cup a couple of times.

"Close your mouth Sergeant. You're starting to look like a hooker waiting for a John on the street corner in the middle of the red light district."

Moss quickly closed his mouth and immediately looked around to see if anyone had overheard them.

"Don't worry Sergeant," Ackerson said as he took a sip from his cup. "I activated a privacy screen the moment Colonel Russell left the table. No one can hear a word we're saying."

Moss glanced at the other patrons in the room to confirm, before leaning forward.

"I've never heard of Operation White Knuckle, sir," he lamely said, just in case it was a coincidence.

Ackerson snorted.

"Sergeant, the moment Colonel Russell approached me with your problem, I pulled your file. I know everything you 'were not' doing on Actium and specifically, what you 'weren't' looking for. I couldn't have known all that unless I had clearance for that."

"I also know the conditions you were given, that would allow you the clearance to inform people like Colonel Russell what actions you were undertaking during the Battle of Actium," Ackerson continued, and Moss watched as he reached under the table and pulled out a small data pad, of which he laid on the table. "I have here, a written notice from Admiral Margaret Parangosky, director of the Office of Naval Intelligence, authorizing you permission to inform Colonel Russell, and _only_ Colonel Russell, about the events surrounding Operation White Knuckle and your participation in said operation."

Moss was flabbergasted. Both because he never expected this meeting to actually come to anything and... well, truth be told, he almost felt... disappointed? But that couldn't be right as this was what he wanted.

...right?

"Thank you, sir," Moss said as soon as he realized Ackerson was waiting for a response. "I appreciate the efforts you have gone to, sir, and I'm sure it won't go to waste."

Moss reached for the data pad but before he could grab it, Ackerson pulled it away.

"I'm not going to give it to you," he announced.

"Sir?" Moss asked, confused.

"I'm not going to give you access, Sergeant, because you don't need it," Ackerson announced. "You and I both know you're using this 'classified' bullshit as a shield to avoid talking about your experiences."

"Sir, that's not true," Moss reflexively protested, but then paused when Ackerson's eyebrows narrowed.

"Sergeant, let me remind you: I am not a therapist. Nor am I a member of the medical branch. As such, I have no requirements to treat my soldiers... gently."

Ackerson said that last word with a bit of a sneer.

"Because of that, I'm only going to say this once: you lie to me again during this conversation, and you're going to regret it. Is that clear Sergeant?"

Moss nodded.

"Yes, sir," he mutely confirmed.

"Good. Let's start over, shall we? I'm not giving you this data pad so forget it ever existed."

Moss mutely watched as Ackerson slide the data pad back into his pocket and secured it.

"Instead," Ackerson continued, taking a sip from his cup. "Let's talk about you."

Moss resisted the urge to sigh. His least favorite topic. Great.

"Sir, with all due respect, I'm not entirely sure what there is to talk about," Moss admitted.

He could see Ackerson's eyebrows rising.

"Here's an idea: why don't you start by telling me why you're trying to hide behind this 'classified' bullshit instead of just coming out and talking about what happened to you," Ackerson bluntly suggested. "You do understand the purpose behind Colonel Russell's being, do you not Soldier?"

"I do, sir," Moss quickly said. "It's just -"

"Just what Sergeant?" Ackerson interrupted. "If there's one person in this entire Army that you should be speaking to about your mental problems, Colonel Russell is it. This is his job, Sergeant. It is most certainly _not_ mine."

Moss opened his mouth to try and provide a response to Ackerson's blunt remarks. As he did, he suddenly realized his eyes were prickling, like he was on the verge of crying, and he suddenly wished he had a gun he could shoot himself with.

What the hell Moss. What sort of fucking pussy was he that the moment he was confronted with some mean words, his first instinct was to start crying? If only the earth would suddenly open up and swallow him whole...

Moss did his best to hide his internal conflict from Ackerson, but he must not have been very successful as Ackerson abruptly let out a sigh and lowered his teacup. For a moment, he just stared at Moss like he was trying to figure out what to do or what to say.

"Sergeant," he finally said. "I'm going to say something, and I want you to listen very closely because I will not say it again. Understood?"

Moss mutely nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

"I'm going to tell you a story," Ackerson began, "about one of the best Soldiers I ever commanded in my career. Before I was attached as liaison to ONI, I was part of the Army's Intelligence Support Agency. Perhaps you've heard of us. Gray Fox? The Activity?"

Before Moss could reply, Ackerson continued.

"Regardless," he continued, "I ran a team. This was back in the Insurrectionist days. Before the Covenant. At any case, multiple missions were conducted. It was a very successful team. And the reason for the success could be laid at the feet of one person: the commander of the ground team."

"His name is not important," Ackerson said before Moss could say anything. "But for the sake of this conversation, we'll call him Jones."

"I don't say this about people, but Jones was quite honestly one of the best soldiers I'd ever commanded. He was brilliant, innovative, and creative. Everything you could ever want or hope for in an Operator. And he cared deeply for his men. Not to the point it would compromise the mission, but he would go out of his way to make sure his entire team made it home."

"But then one day, he had to make a hard call. His team ended up in an Innie ambush. Bad intel. You try to prevent that sort of thing, but unfortunately it happened. The result was, Jones was left with two choices: finish the mission, or save the lives of his men. Couldn't do both."

"In the end, he did what was expected of him. What his job required him to do: he put the mission first. Turned what should have been a defeat into a great victory instead. But it cost the lives of two of his men, and left a third one paralyzed for life."

"I wanted to yank him off the team and have him undergo a full psychiatric work up," Ackerson explained. "No point having a potentially emotionally compromised operator in the field. But he persuaded me otherwise. Assured me he was fine, that he could... 'handle it.' Last thing I wanted was to lose my finest operator, so I agreed on the condition he underwent a battery of test, both physical and psychological. If he failed once, he was done. But if he passed..."

"He passed. Flying colors. As you would expect from a man like him. No one thought twice about it and true to my word, he was put back on active duty. Resumed operations right where he left off. It was like he never left. No one suspected anything was wrong."

"Until the day he set his house on fire with his wife and two kids still inside."

Moss' head snapped up at that, however Ackerson wasn't looking at him. Instead, he was staring at a point somewhere in the distance.

"As his commanding officer, I knew his family pretty well," Ackerson said, sounding distant. "His wife used to make some of the sweetest ice tea you could hope for. His kids use to call me 'Uncle James.' His eldest son had a child's version of our uniforms. Used to wear it all over the place. He was so proud of it because, 'his daddy was a hero.'"

Ackerson snorted and shook his head.

"Worse part is, never did find out why he did it," he continued. "Because as soon as his family was dead, Jones jumped into his truck, drove to the nearest military base and tried to ram the gate. MPs? They thought he was a suicide bomber. Lit him up. Shot him so many times, the medics needed a tarp just to pull his body out from his truck..."

Ackerson trailed off, leaving Moss stunned. How did one react to being told something like that?

Fortunately, Moss didn't need to say anything as Ackerson spoke up again.

"The reason why I tell you this, Sergeant," he quietly began, "is because you, like Jones, seem to think that what you're going through is nothing but a phase. A weakness. Something to ignore and eventually, it'll go away. That's what you think. But I'm here to tell you, Sergeant, that, no, it won't. Because, you see, what you're suffering from... it's a wound. It's a terrible, terrible wound. And by ignoring it... you're allowing it to grow. Allowing it to fester. You're letting it leave a rot so deep within your soul, you'll never get it out. And eventually, it _will_ consume your whole life."

"So... how do I prevent that from happening?" Moss whispered.

Ackerson stared at him straight in the eyes.

"By ripping the bandages off, Sergeant," he said. "Stop trying to hide it, and deal with it directly."

Moss stared at him. That sounded so simple in theory, but to try and do that in reality...

Ackerson abruptly lowered his cup.

"We're done here Sergeant," was all he said.

Moss sighed and nodded. Climbing to his feet, he snapped to attention.

"Thank you very much for your time, sir," he said as respectfully as he could managed.

All Ackerson did was lift his cup in response and Moss figured that was the end of that.

Placing his beret back onto his head, Moss walked out of the building without another word.

**xxx**

Moss silently walked off the bus and headed to the front gate of Fort Glazunov. It had taken him a few hours to get to this point, as Moss had decided to take a walk around town, to try and clear his mind. The entire time though, all he could think of was the story that Ackerson had told him.

In some ways, he sort of understood what Ackerson had been telling him. At the same time, Moss wasn't entirely convinced his situation, and the situation of that of "Jones" was even remotely similar. From the sounds of it, Jones had some major issues, issues that led him to murdering the people that should have been most precious to him. Moss, on the other hand, well, he just needed to suck it up and get over it.

But then again, wasn't that the point of what Ackerson had been saying? When he had his brain aneurysm burst, that wasn't simply something he could just "get over," right? Like, he needed a trained surgeon to address the issue, actual surgery, and nearly six months' worth of therapy just to recover from it. So, if what Ackerson had been telling him, if his mental issues were the same way, that he been wounded psychologically just as badly he had been physically, then perhaps it wasn't something he could hope to overcome all on his own. Perhaps it was something actual physicians needed to check out. Perhaps he need some actual professional help.

Yet, at the same time... to try and open up and actually show people who he really was...

Moss mentally let out an aggravated sighed as he was waved through the gate. At this point he was just going in circles. Maybe he just needed a good night's sleep. Maybe it would make a lot more sense in the morning.

Distracted as he was, Moss didn't noticed all the emergency vehicles parked outside one of the buildings with their lights on until he was almost right on top of them. It took him even longer to realize they were parked right outside his dorm room building. But when he did, he felt a wave of dread suddenly pass right through him.

Did something happen?

He didn't know what compelled him to start running, but he did. As he got closer, he could see a large crowd of soldiers being held back by a small number of MPs, all gathering near the entrance to the building.

Reaching the crowd, Moss began shoving his way to the front, reaching the line of MPs just in time to see -

Two medics were loading a stretcher onto one of the ambulances. Laying on top of it, a body bag. One that was clearly occupied.

Someone died? Who?

Moss started to turn to the person standing next to him to ask, but then paused when he noted the crowd of people standing behind the MPs near the entrance to the building most of whom he recognized: Captain Lancelot, Sergeant Stalgis, the company first sergeant, the battalion sergeant major, even the battalion commander. What were they all doing here?

Then Moss spotted Ferguson. Ferguson was standing nearby, and the look on his face sent shivers down Moss' spine. A look of absolute devastation and shock occupied his face, and his eyes were red, like he'd been crying.

What the hell happened?

Just as Moss spotted Ferguson though, Ferguson happened to look up and -

"MOSS!"

Moss barely had time to react before Ferguson dashed towards him and pulled into a desperate bear hug.

"Moss, are you okay? Are you hurt?" Ferguson quickly asked him and behind him, Moss could see Lancelot and Stalgis and the battalion commander dashing over.

"Wha...? I'm fine Fergs!" Moss managed to exclaim. "What the hell is going on!?"

Ferguson pulled away, giving Moss a grim look. And just like that...

...he knew.

* * *

Author's Note

\- This was a scene that I had planned, but had no intention of actually putting in the story itself as it switches perspectives from Moss to an entirely different character and generally speaking, I find that it's a bad idea to do such a thing in the middle of a story, especially one where the vast majority of which has taken place from Moss' POV.

This little excerpt is from Grant Russell's perspective and basically, I wanted to explain how he knew Ackerson, and how he was on such friendly terms with him.

Grant lowered the data pad he was reading from and watched as a distracted looking Sergeant Shen stumble out of the building and frowned. That conversation had ended a lot faster than he had hoped, or even anticipated. Hopefully it helped because if it didn't, well, Grant wasn't sure what else he could do to help Moss.

Tucking his data pad into his pocket, Grant strolled back into the building and headed to the table where Ackerson was sitting, sipping on his tea, looking whimsical. Without saying a word, Grant slid into the chair Moss had been sitting in only a few minutes ago and pulled up the holographic menu. Ordering a cup of coffee, Grant waited until the small drone came out from the kitchen of the cafe, bearing a small cup of steaming coffee on its top. It flew right up to Grant and came to a stop, allowing Grant to grab it, and then pay for it.

Tossing a couple cubes of sugar, followed by a small dose of creamer, Grant stirred the mixture together and took a sip. Ah... perfection.

It was only after he had taken another three sips before he finally spoke up.

"So," he quietly began. "Do you think it help?"

He could hear Ackerson silently snorting.

"How should I know? _You're_ the psychiatrist," Ackerson bluntly pointed out.

Grant nodded to himself. Fair enough.

"I'm hoping it will," Grant earnestly replied. "I don't believe Sergeant Shen's reluctance to speak had anything to do with the classified nature of his mission, but at least now he'll have one less shield to hide behind. I'm hoping with enough prodding, he'll eventually be able to be honest about his feelings, if only to himself."

Ackerson didn't say a word.

"It's just...you know, I feel for these guys," Grant confessed. "We thought we had it bad when we were growing up, but at least we were facing an enemy we understood. As bad as the Innies are, they've at least never tried to exterminate an entire species before. The Covenant are... well, you know what they're like. You've faced them before. Just the things we're asking these young men and women to do in the defense of our people, it's really no wonder why everyone is closing to breaking. If I can help somebody, even for just a little bit... well, I can only hope I can make a difference, no matter how small it may be."

Ackerson didn't as much as twitch in response. Instead, he just continued to sip away at his tea.

Grant sighed.

"Thank you for coming out here James," he sincerely said. "I know you're a very busy man and you're not big on talking about 'emotions' and 'feelings,' so I appreciate what you've done here."

Ackerson grunted in response and Grant couldn't help but give him a sideways glance.

"I suppose, knowing you, I should leave it at that," he admitted, "but I can't help but ask: why?"

Ackerson sighed and lowered his cup.

"Soldiers like Sergeant Shen there are the ones that are going to win us this war. Not… test tube freaks built in a lab," Ackerson said somewhat distractedly.

Grant waited a minute for that to make sense to him. Then he waited another one. Finally, he decided whatever Ackerson had just been talking about was classified and thus, was probably better off not knowing.

"Anyways, thanks once again for coming out here and trying to help," Grant finally said.

"Well, I have business here anyways. Figured I might as well kill two birds with one stone," Ackerson replied roughly. To anyone else, it would have sounded like a dick response. However, Grant had known Ackerson long enough to know that was about as close to a "your welcome" as he would get.

Grant suddenly grinned.

"Hey James," he said brightly, deliberately using Ackerson's first name to piss him off. "Tell your wife she needs to call her big brother more often."

Ackerson snorted.

"You know phones work both ways, right?" he pointed out.

All Grant could do was grin as he picked up his cup once more and continued to drink.

* * *

So, yeah. That was my grand plan. We know Ackerson is married in canon because, out of revenge for trying to have the Master Chief killed while he was testing out the Mjolnir Mark V suit in 2552 (as depicted in the Halo novel _Halo: The Fall of Reach_,) among other things, Cortana dummied up a bunch of fake credit charges to a brothel and made sure to send the bill to his wife in order to make it seem like Ackerson was cheating on her. I figured that meant Ackerson had a family that he had at least liked (as, as far as we know, Ackerson was _not_ cheating on his wife,) so I thought it would be a bit amusing if he had a brother-in-law that stood in complete contrast to his character.

Other Note

\- Something I want to go over really quick before I end the chapter: I don't know how many people have noticed, but I actually have miniature "update schedule" on my fanfiction profile (just click on my author's name!) I've got some other story stuff planned in the upcoming weeks, but the big announcement is that this story is coming to a close. I've got one more chapter (chapter 6) planned, which will be followed by an epilogue. But after this story is finished...

_Battle: Actium _is coming back! Yay! (yay?) April 4 is the planned return date (so, a little over a month from now; I hope I can stick to the date...) at which point, we'll continue with the ongoing war on Actium. Hope you guys will join me for that!


	7. Chapter 6

Thank you everyone for all the reviews you guys left last chapter, I really appreciate it. I admit, I had concerns about how that chapter would turn out, but you guys reacted exactly the way I had hoped. So, many thanks!

* * *

**Chapter 6**

**Fort Glazunov, Katara Region, Skopje  
November 27, 2545  
1011**

"Party! Atten - _TION!"_

The Battle of Actium officially began on May 6, 2545, at zero eight hundred hours local time, when a Covenant task force emerged from slipspace just outside the orbit of the planet of Tenedos inside the Ambracia System, triggering a desperate battle where UNSC forces would attempt to defend the strategic colony world of Actium.

They would lose.

Badly.

"Party! Half - _RIGHT!"_

Officially, the battle ended on June 12th, at about fifteen hundred hours local time when Covenant ground forces finally overran the UNSC's last anti-air firebase, finally cutting off UNSC access to the surface. However, long range satellite imagery would indicate the ground battle would continue to rage for at least three more days as whatever was left of the UNSC garrison opted to go down fighting, as opposed to try and futilely surrender.

"Party! Port - _ARMS!_

Four days after that, Covenant warships would be observed moving into position within the orbit of Actium, in order to enact their final solution: the glassing of the planet's surface and the extermination of all remaining life on the colony. Such an action would take the Covenant two standard weeks to accomplish at which point, they too, would abandon the planet, leaving nothing behind but one giant ball of lava and glass.

"Party! Take - _AIM!"_

The thirty-seven day battle would cost the UNSC dearly. According to official tallies, over one hundred and four Navy and Air Force warships would be damaged or destroyed. Roughly fourteen Army and Marine Corps division-sized units or larger would be completely annihilated, including, but not limited to: the Army's 53rd Armored Division, the Army's 222nd Airborne Division, and the Marine Corps 9th Marine Expeditionary Force. Nearly seventeen million Airmen, Marines, Sailors, Soldiers, and Militiamen would be killed, along with almost thirty-three million civilians.

Not wounded or missing.

Killed.

"Ready... _FIRE!"_

An anonymous UNSC official would later characterize the battle as, "some of the most intense ground fighting yet to be seen in the war," and compared the loss of Actium to that of the loss of the colony of Harvest in 2525. As to the strategic and political repercussions, UNSC officials would remain silent however, most experts would agree: the loss of Actium had set back the UNSC war effort by "decades," and that, if there had been any question whether humanity was losing the war, "it had just been answered."

"Ready... _FIRE!"_

Since then, exactly a hundred and sixty-eight days had passed. Nearly six months of frantic activity, relocation of units, and reconstruction of defensive positions as the UNSC hurriedly moved to prepare for the next Covenant attack. At this point, despite the heavy casualties, Actium had become nothing more than a distant memory, one that many people were all too willing to forget. At this point, Actium herself was probably nothing more than a smoldering ball of glass.

So how was it people were _still_ dying because of Actium?

"Ready... _FIRE!"_

On November 24th, 2545, the body of one Sergeant Julian "Fish" Perez was found inside his dorm room on the fourth floor of building number sixteen inside the confines of the Army's Fort Glazunov. The official autopsy report stated he had died of asphyxiation, the result of a noose having been tied around his neck which crushed his windpipe and prevented the flow of oxygen to the body's brain.

That's what the report said.

What it didn't say, however, was that Fish had been the one to tie the noose and fit it around his own neck. That he'd been the one to step off the chair and allow a combination of gravity and his own body weight to make sure the noose was drawn tight. That he had hung there, for nearly five minutes, as his brain desperately cried out for oxygen, not once calling for help or even trying to escape.

What the medical report failed to say was that Fish, at the young of twenty... had committed suicide.

"Party! Present - _ARMS!"_

Moss turned around to face the gravesite, his rifle held out vertically in front of him, with the still smoking muzzle pointed straight up into the air. As he stood there, the Army bugler began to play, and as his melancholic tone filled the air, Moss couldn't help but glance in the direction of the audience where a crying young lady sat in the front row with a sleeping baby in her arms.

There was a time when Moss thought he had known Fish. They were never the best of friends, but they had always gotten along pretty well and Moss had always thought he knew Fish pretty well. The last three days however, had very thoroughly disabused him of that notion. He hadn't known, for example, Fish had lost his entire squad on Actium, including his best friend. He hadn't known that, since returning from the field, Fish had been suffering from both nightmares and suicidal thoughts. He hadn't known that Fish had been diagnosed with depression, PTSD, and survivor's guilt. But most of all, Moss hadn't known that Fish had been married, much less that he had a two month old daughter.

As he stood there, watching Fish's now widow cry, all the while attempting to resist doing the same, Moss couldn't help but notice the parallels that had existed between Fish... and himself. Like Fish, Moss had lost his entire squad on Actium, including his best friend in the galaxy. Like Fish, Moss had been plagued with nightmares and suicidal thoughts since his return from the field. Like Fish, Moss was pretty sure he was about to be diagnosed with depression, PTSD, and survivor's guilt. Only one question remained: just how far would the parallels go?

**xxx**

"My name is Olivia Lambert Perez."

Moss patiently sat there, listening, as Fish's widow struggled to begin her eulogy.

"I am -" she paused. "- was, Fish's wife. We met... nearly a year and a half ago... at a bar in downtown Katara City. It was like... it _was_ love at first sight. He was sitting at the bar when I walked in and... our eyes met from across the room and..."

Olivia stopped and closed her eyes, and Moss could see tears sliding down her cheeks. For a moment, Moss thought she was done, but then she continued to speak.

"When Fish and I started dating," she whispered, "it was... like nothing I'd ever experienced. Fish was kind, he was sweet, he was funny... after six months of dating, I knew he was going to be the one for me. When... when he proposed, it was the second happiest day of my life. When we found out I was pregnant with Sophia..." she glanced at the baby sleeping in the arms of an elder lady sitting in the audience, and seemed about ready to burst into fresh tears once more.

"When Fish... first got his deployment orders, I was scared out of my mind," Olivia continued. "I was only three months pregnant, but... I was already freaking out about the idea of being a mother. I... I mean, I was only twenty-two: what did I know about motherhood? And... and the fact I was going to be... to be alone for most of it? I didn't... I wasn't sure if that was what I wanted."

"But Fish? There was no doubting about it. He was... he was so enthusiastic about being a father. He..."

Olivia stopped and pressed her fist against her mouth.

"When he was on Newsaka," Moss heard her murmur. "That's all he could think about. That's what drove him, helped keep him alive. His daughter. His baby girl. Little Sophia. Every time he'd call me, he'd ask about her. Always talking about... what to call her. What'd she be like. Whether she'd look more like him, or more like me. It was because of his enthusiasm that I was... I was able to overcome my own doubts. That I..."

"Then Actium occurred and... everything changed. When he... when he got back, I almost didn't recognize him. He... he was different. A lot more angry. A lot less lively. He... he was missing that spark that had attracted me to him in the first place. Worst of all, he... he didn't seem interested in the baby any more. He... stopped asking about her, stopped paying attention. And when she was born, he..."

Olivia stopped and let out a mute sob. For s moment, everyone sat there was watched as she visibly struggled to bring her emotions under control, before someone from the audience abruptly up and walked over to her. But before he could reach, she began speaking again.

"I asked him... a few days after we were released from the hospital," she softly recounted, "if he would like to hold her. The look of absolute terror on his face... I never asked him again."

"For a while there, things seemed to be okay. He... Fish... he didn't feel like the same man I had married. But... at least he was home and... maybe after some _time_ he'd...

"Then... it... _happened_. One day, Fish came home and he'd... been drinking. A lot. He was always a heavy drinker but... I must have scared him or, or, _something_ because next thing I knew, I was on the ground holding my lip."

Moss looked up sharply at that and Olivia must have realized how bad that sounded because she quickly said, "The horrified look on his face... I knew Fish hadn't meant to do that. That it was an accident, but... whatever self-confidence he had was gone after that. He... I think he stopped trusting himself after that. The next day, he was gone. He had moved back to base. Away... away from us. Some place where... he couldn't hurt us, even by accident."

"And..." Olivia's voice cracked, "that was the last time I ever saw him. I'd call... every now and then... and every time I saw him, he... looked worse and worse. But... he wouldn't admit it. He... he'd tell me he was fine. I think... he was trying to... I don't know, _protect_ me or... But I... I just wanted to _help_ him. I just wanted him to talk to me. I just..."

"I just wish," she said, her voice full of raw emotion. "That I could have somehow made him know that... he was loved and that...he didn't have to be _alone_..."

Olivia trailed off once more but this time, it was clear even to Moss that she wasn't coming back. She was openly crying now, with her hand over her mouth and even as Moss sat there, a couple of the audience members leapt to their feet and walked over to her. Wrapping their arms around her shoulder, they gently lead her back to her seat

**xxx**

Later, during the wake, Moss sat in the corner of the room, watching as everyone else quietly intermingle. He supposed he should have been out there with everyone else but... he wasn't sure if he could handle it at the moment. His mind was just... stuck, replaying the moment he had found out Fish had died.

_"I was the first person to find him,"_ Ferguson had told him. _"I was... I was thinking about going to town for a drink or two, and I thought I'd see if you guys had wanted to come with."_

_"I stopped by your dorm,"_ Ferguson had continued. _"Because that's where I knew you guys normally would be. I knocked on the door, only, it abruptly popped open. So, I walked inside and..."_

_"The first thing I saw was the chair laying on its side on the ground,"_ Ferguson had recounted, his voice full of shock and horror. _"I don't know why that drew my eye first, I just remember thinking, 'That doesn't belong there.' Then I noticed the pair of feet hovering a few centimeters off the ground and I looked up and... there was Fish. Just hanging there. There was no denying it: he was already dead."_

_"I... I think I screamed. Then I called for a medic. And, it was only after that, did I start freaking out about _**you**_."_

Moss remembered snapped his head up at that.

_"Me?"_ He remembered saying, surprised. _"Why would you have been worried about me?"_

_"Because you weren't there,"_ Ferguson had said simply. _"And no one knew where you were. Base logs said you had left a few hours ago... but they didn't show you ever coming back. And that had me worried because... I didn't know if you had decided to do the same thing Fish had. I didn't... I didn't know if I was going to be losing two friends on the same day."_

Moss had been stunned.

_"Why would you think I would...?"_ he remembered asking, even though he had already known the answer.

The look Ferguson had given him was one of hurt and pity.

_"Moss, you've got issues,"_ he had said. "_You're trying to hide it but... I can still tell. And I know you're not talking to anyone about it."_

_"I'm not saying you should talk to me,"_ Ferguson continued. _"I'm just saying, well, I'd feel a lot better if I knew you were talking to _**somebody**_. Because right now? I'll be honest Moss, some nights I'm scared to go to bed because I'm afraid that when I wake up, you'll no longer be here."_

Ferguson sighed.

_"Just something to think about I guess,"_ he had said before walking away to report to Lancelot, leaving Moss to sit there and stew on his words.

Now, three days later, Moss was still thinking about it. However, as he sat there, watching the mourners and well-wishers intermingle, all of them struggling to try and figure out how they were going to move past all this, Moss came to a stunning realization:

He didn't want to end up like Fish.

**xxx**

Later that night, Moss found himself standing outside Ferguson's door. He supposed Doctor Grant would have actually been the better option, being a medical doctor and everything, but Moss was pretty sure that as a colonel, Grant did not live on base. Plus, even after this many weeks, Moss still wasn't entirely comfortable with Grant. So Ferguson it was.

As soon as Moss knocked, the door opened and there was Ferguson, standing there as if he had been expecting him. He didn't say a word and instead, ushered Moss inside.

Inside, he had a small camp burner sitting in the corner of his room, which was technically against regulations, but Moss didn't care at this point.

Herding Moss towards a chair, Moss sat down and watched as Ferguson lifted a kettle of boiling water off the burner and started to pour the water into two cups he had set up, one of which he kept, the other he handed off to Moss. Moss sniffed it. It was chocolate milk.

For the next few minutes, he and Ferguson just sat there, sipping on their cups. Ferguson didn't say a word; he just waited for Moss to gather his thoughts.

"I was never one for planning or even forward thinking," Moss finally began. "I was, and am, very much of a live day-by-day, hour-by-hour type of person. Never really had plans for the future, never really had any goals for life. Too lazy I guess. Much easier to live inside my own imagination, where I made all the rules."

"Because of that, I did what was expected of me: I woke up, I went to school, came home, and went back to sleep. Did it over and over again until I graduated from elementary school and moved onto middle school, where I repeated the same process. Then it was high school. Day after day, the same thing."

"When I graduated from high school, I didn't really think about what my next step was. I enlisted in the Army because, well, that's what everyone else was doing and I thought maybe I should do the same thing. I didn't really have any _desire_ to join the Army, but at the same time, I didn't really have a reason _not_ to. I just... did it because that was the thing to do. If everyone else was going to college, I probably would have done that instead but because they didn't, I didn't."

"People always told me I needed some pretty strong motivation in order to make it through OSUT and Jump School but honestly? I found both to be relatively easy. All I had to do was do what I was told and keep up with everyone else and I'd been doing that all my life, so what else was new?"

"It wasn't until I graduated from Jump School and got assigned here did I start to run into trouble. The civilian world thinks the military is all about orders and commands and 'yes, sir, how high' sort of crap, but I've found that for the most part, the Army doesn't give a shit what you do as long as it doesn't make the Army _look_ bad in the process. And because of that, coupled with the fact I was living on my own away from my family for the first time in my life, I was my own man. I had to make my own decisions for everything, even what I was going to eat for dinner or when I was going to do my laundry." Moss snorted. "Basically: I had to be an independent adult for the first time and I was so not ready for that shit."

"But I managed. I survived, if only because I wasn't ready to die just yet. Still, not much changed. I may have gotten a lot more independence in my life, but I wasn't really _living_ it. I was just... there. A passive observer to the story that was Moss Shen."

"Then I met Pip."

Moss felt his breath hitch at the mere mention of her name. Still, he knew he had to keep going. One didn't stop halfway when ripping off the bandages.

Still, Moss couldn't help but close his eyes and hold them shut, as if he could prevent his tears from falling.

"Pip was... Pip was alive. She had lived her life. She had plans, she had goals, she had... she had a personality. She was a real person, not a caricature of a person. Not like me..."

Moss tightly gripped his cup, wishing he was holding onto a cigarette, not some chocolate milk. Still, he had to make do with what he had.

"You know, back on Newsaka, during Operation Mossflower, our mission had been to drop behind Covenant lines and set up a block position. Cut the main Covenant invasion force off from their landing zone. Prevent them from getting resupplied and reinforced, as well as hold them in place while the Eleventh Army came up from the south and hammered them. Pretty standard hammer and anvil operation if you think about it..."

Moss glanced at Ferguson and snorted.

"I don't know why I'm telling you this," he admitted. "You were there. You knew exactly what we were doing on Newsaka. Probably better than I do."

"If it helps you Moss," Ferguson simply said, "then I don't mind hearing it again."

Moss took a moment to consider that, before nodding his head.

"Well, three days in and we managed to accomplish our primary objective: cut the Covenant off from their landing sites and establish a defensive line to hold them there. Only, no one bothered to tell the Covenant that, so the rest of the month they just launched one counterattack after another, trying to break out. Half the time I think they were attacking just for the sake of attacking; the Covenant have always been notoriously over-aggressive, but it certainly worked out better for us in the long run."

"At any case, in that month long attack, Pip and I shared a foxhole. She should have probably been sharing it with Shin and Noelle, but Command didn't want more than two people per hole and plus, Shin and Noelle were teammates. But she shared one with me, and no one else, probably because at the time, I was the only one she trust who wouldn't have tried to do anything, I guess."

"But during those long nights of non-stop Covenant bombardment, she and I would talk. A lot. I mean, what else was there to do but talk or risk slowly going insane?"

"During those talks, she'd tell me about her plans for the future. The life she wanted to build with Ajax. What sort of decorations she wanted for her wedding. How many kids she wanted. Her dream home. She even knew what she wanted to name the dog she was going to get!"

"It was Rufus, by the way," he added. "Rufus was going to be the goddamn dog's name. I don't remember why, but I remember the name."

Moss swallowed. The last few months, even thinking about Pip had been really difficult for him, and he hadn't thought he would have been able to get through this without breaking down. It still hurt, knowing she was gone. But somehow, talking about her, reliving these memories of her... it wasn't as painful as he thought it would be.

He sighed.

"Point is, as we talked. And as we talked, I gradually began to realize what I had been missing all my life. I have no hopes, no dreams, no plan, nothing. Not like Pip. As we continued to talk, I realized how much of a failure in life I had been: all this time, I had allowed life to pass me by when I should have been... grabbing it by the horns and taking control. I had been alive for nineteen years at that point, but how much of that time was spent actually living? Making connections and establishing a legacy? Probably none."

"Right then and there I knew what I had to do. My life was being wasted on me, but it didn't have to be that way. Pip? Pip deserved to live, and so I decided to do everything I could to make sure she made it home safely, even if it meant dying in the process."

"Pip? I'm pretty sure she knew what I was doing," Moss continued. "I mean, she had to. And if it had been anybody else, I don't think she would have appreciated it. She could take care of herself and she damn well knew it. She didn't need no knight in shining armor to save _her_ life."

"But I think she could sense just how much I needed that. That goal to help me sane. That goal to help keep me moving. That goal to help keep me alive."

"But then Actium happened... and everyone died... everyone but me. The one person who didn't deserve to live in the first place..."

"When Pip died, it was like..." Moss trailed off as he struggled to think about how he was going to word this next part, before sighing.

"I know what I need to do," he confessed. "I need to move on. Find another goal. I need to live my life in a way that Pip or Norén or Griffin or all the other guys who died never got to. But I just... can't."

Moss trailed off as he struggled to think of what else to say, but nothing came to mind. So instead, he took a sip from his cup to try and mask the silence. He was almost afraid to see what Ferguson's reaction to his confession was, so Moss kept his head down as he waited for him to respond.

There was a mute _clink_ as Ferguson placed his cup on the ground and Moss could hear him sighing.

"Moss, I'd like to tell you a story," he began, and if the situation wasn't so serious, Moss would have laughed. Seemed like everyone in the last few months wanted to tell him a story but who knew? Maybe this time he would actually listen.

"You know that pistol I totally don't own and keep on my body at all times?" Ferguson asked and Moss nodded, remembering the small firearm Ferguson had pulled on Ajax in that bar nearly a month ago. "Well, I only have one round left for it."

Moss' head snapped up as the implications of that instantly hit him like a bolt of lightning as he could only think of one reason why someone would only want a single round for their gun. However, Ferguson wasn't looking at him. Instead, he was staring at a random spot on the wall, lost in thought.

"You know Newsaka wasn't my first campaign against the Covenant," Ferguson continued. "Saw some action on Miridem back in '44. Fighting was nowhere near as bad as it was on Actium or even Newsaka, but it didn't matter. The things we see, the stuff we do, the conditions we endure... it's all the same, really, when you think about it. Battle, war, conflict: they'll eat you alive, chew you up, and then spit you right out."

"After we lost Miridem, I was in a similar situation to you Moss," Ferguson said, throwing Moss a glance. "I was... lost. I had lost friends on the field, I had lost comrades, I had… lost a part of myself."

"Not physically, of course," he added as he patted his prosthetic leg. "Not like Newsaka. But it doesn't matter: every time we go to war, we always end up losing a small part of our souls."

"At any case, what happened to me was that... I really wanted to be alone, so I hopped onto a bus and found myself on the outskirts of the city. I had a bunch of booze and my gun. And so, I just started drinking. I don't really know what I was hoping to accomplish but... that's what I was doing."

"And as I sat there, thinking about everything I was trying not to think about, I started getting angry. Angry about the Covenant, the UNSC, this fucking war, _everything_. I remember just chucking my half empty bottle of liquor as hard as I could before pulling out my pistol and just started shooting. I don't know why, I was just... angry."

"Honestly a bit surprised no one called the cops on me," Ferguson sheepishly added. "Suppose I should just be glad I didn't accidently kill anyone that night with my wild rounds."

"Anyways, I had just gotten to my last round when... when I started thinking again. Thinking about all my friends I had lost. All my friends who had been hurt or wounded by the damn Covenant. All their families. All of it. And just like that I, I suddenly realized I couldn't take it anymore. That I didn't want this anymore. So, I took that gun, pressed it against the side of my head and... well, I pulled the trigger."

"...then what happened?" Moss couldn't help but ask, half-horrified, half-shocked by what he was hearing. Never would he have ever though Ferguson doing such a thing...

Ferguson snorted. "Well, obviously, I didn't die," he pointed out. "Heard the hammer fall, but nothing happened. Ejected the round, took a look and what do you know: bad primer. What were the chances, right?"

"Course, the implications of what I had just tried to do immediately hit me. But, the fact that I had tried to kill myself didn't horrify me as much as the fact that... I hadn't hesitated. As soon as that thought entered my brain, that gun was against my head with my finger pulling the trigger. There was no thought, no hesitation whatsoever. It was like I was pointing a gun at a Grunt or a damn Jackal, or even an empty bottle lying on the ground. I cared _that little_ about myself. And... that was a problem."

"Had a very long talk with the base psychiatrist the very next day," Ferguson noted with just the barest hint of sarcasm.

Moss quietly watched as Ferguson let out a loud sigh.

"Reason why I tell you all of this Moss," Ferguson continued, "is not to scare you or make you pity me. The point of all this is: I want you to understand, you're not alone in this. We've all stood on the brink and we've all had to make the choice whether to jump or not. You see, everyone who walks onto the battlefield. Everyone who gets into a firefight. _Nobody_ ever walks out unscathed. We've all been scarred in some way shape or form but the problem is, our wounds? You just can't see them."

"So how do we fix ourselves?" Moss whispered.

Ferguson shook his head.

"This is not something that can be fixed with a pill or a drug," he admitted. "It's not something that can be really fixed at all. The trauma you're suffering from is the result of what you've seen and experienced. And you can't get rid of that. It's a part of you now."

"So what do I do?"

"You endure it. You keep hanging on, keep fighting. Eventually, when the memories aren't so strong, you'll figure out a way to live with it."

"The thing is, you don't have to endure it alone. There's always help."

Ferguson turned to stare at Moss.

"Moss, I want to help you," he emphatically said. "But I can't make you do anything. You've got to take that first step."

Without making a noise, Ferguson lifted his hand.

"Will you?"

* * *

1\. According to Halopedia, the Battle of Actium last a month. For the purpose of my other fic, _Battle: Actium_, I'm choosing to change that to "about a month" as I'm still not sure how I'll be able to cover all the stuff I want to in only thirty days. However, that's not definitive, and this date might be subjected to change in the future depending on how things turn out.

(Note: apparently in canon, Colonel Menteith's suicidal charge took place on May 10th. I'm not sure where this date comes from, but it doesn't matter as I'm not planning on using it.)

2\. 104 ships is obviously a lot of ships to have participated in the battle. Honestly, it's probably too much (as reference, Halopedia states that around 152 ships took part during the Battle of Reach,) but having a three digit number sounded more impressive (at least to me) in writing than a double digit number. Just to be clear though, I'm not saying 104 warships were destroyed or were even critically damaged. The number includes ships that suffered from light damage, as well as repeat ships that suffered damage on different occasions. My in-universe explanation is that Moss just got the number confused as he's not a naval or air force guy at all, so he misunderstood the report.

3\. I don't know what the US military definition is for when a unit is considered destroyed (or if there even is one as it's only happened on a few occasions since WW2,) but the definition I'm going with is: a unit is considered annihilating when the majority of the command staff has been killed in action.

So, what that means is: if 1st Division lost 99% of all its troops, but the divisional commander is still alive, then the division is still "active" and will be rebuilt. On the other hand, if 1st Division has 99% of its roster still alive, but the entire division command staff (division commander, deputy commander, division command sergeant major, general staff, etc.) has been killed, then the division is considered "annihilated" and will be disbanded.

Why am I choosing to use this definition? Based on a lot of stuff I've read, one of the biggest problems a military has suffered from when attempting to swell their ranks (like the US did at the beginning of the Civil War and not world wars,) is finding enough officers that have both the experience and the knowledge managing a unit the size of a division or bigger (a division typically has anywhere between 10,000 to 15,000 soldiers assigned to it.) Apparently, that's actually one of the reasons why the enlisted/officer ratio in the current US military seems to be so skewed: in case the US military needs to rapidly grow in size, they'll have plenty of experienced and knowledgeable officers available to lead these new units.

4\. For reference, it's estimated that about 15 to 24 million soldiers (not including civilians) was killed during WW2. And that took place over the course of nearly six years. As you can imagine, I'm envisioning the dead rate of the Battle of Actium to be significantly higher (about a third or more deaths, I imagine, would have come from orbit.)

5\. Civilian deaths, on the other hand, would be a lot lower as I imagine at this point in the war, the UNSC has gotten their evacuation procedures down to a science. There's only more civilian deaths than military ones because there are simply more civilians than soldiers.


	8. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

**Fort Glazunov, Katara Region, Skopje  
January 17, 2546  
1345**

_"So, your brother is thinking about applying for Air Force ROTC when he goes off to college."_

"Yeah?" Moss commented as he stepped off the bus. "That's good to hear mom, I guess. It'll probably be good for him. Air Force requires more technical and management skills than the Army does. He'll probably fit in pretty well, if he makes it."

_"Plus, it'll be safer,"_ his mom added.

"Maybe," Moss replied with a shrug. "Depends on what job he ends up doing. If he's like, SF or a pilot, probably not. But if he's like, I don't know, logistics or maintenance, he'll probably be okay."

_"So... why don't you do that?"_

"Do what?" Moss asked, confused.

_"Get a safer job,"_ his mom elaborated and given how excited she sounded saying that, Moss could tell she had been waiting to ask that very question for a while now.

He sighed.

"Mom, that's not how it works around here," he explained with forced patience.

_"Why not? If your father is unhappy with his job, he'll just find another. Why can't you do the same?"_

"Because the military doesn't work that way mom," Moss said with a roll of his eyes. "When we enlist, we get a contract saying we serve in X position for X amount of years. I can only start to think about reclassing once my contract is up. And that's still three years away."

_"But why not? You've done so much already!"_

"Mom, I'm not going through this argument. Not again," Moss replied with a groan. "I'm done. Talk about something, or else I'm going to hang up."

_"Fine,"_ his mom sullenly said. _"I'll drop it. For now."_

Moss mentally sighed. That was probably as good as he could hope for.

_"How's your friend's wife?"_ his mom delicately asked.

"Who, Olivia?" Moss confirmed before sighing. "Not sure. It's not like I know her, so I don't exactly feel comfortable just calling her up and asking her out to lunch or something. Last I heard, she was planning on moving back in with her parents on the other side of the region so, at least she'll be with people she knows? All I know is that in the last month, Sergeant Stalgis has been going around collecting all the footage of Fish that he can."

"Yeah," Moss continued. "Apparently he's even gone through all our helmet cams from Newsaka and Actium to grab some stuff. The good stuff, of course, none of the blood and gore and violence. He's also gone around and had most of us recount a fun or nice memory we had with Fish in the past so that he could also add to the compilation. I think the end goal is to create some sort of film that he can give to Olivia, who in turn give to her daughter when she gets old enough. That way, Sophia can at least get some idea as to what sort of person her dad was."

_"That's a pretty thoughtful idea,"_ his mom commented.

Moss absentmindedly nodded even though they were on voice chat only. "Yeah, it turns out Sergeant Stalgis is a lot more thoughtful person than most people, including me, gave him credit for."

_"And what about Fish himself?"_

Moss was proud to note that he only hesitated for a split second before replying. "Well, the Army is the Army. As far as they're concern, Fish was just another statistic. His personal effects have already been collected from our dorm, though it's not like he had much around as he never bother to properly move in in the first place. Uh, as far as the platoon goes, well, he's already been replaced; yeah, Corporal Elias was promoted to sergeant and bumped up to squad leader."

_"Who's Corporal Elias again?"_

"Helios Elias. Remember the dude I told you about who was really scared about jumping out of the plane?" Moss reminded her. "Yeah, that's him."

_"And how's he handling it now?"_

Moss shrugged. "Better, I think. I finally talked to him a couple weeks ago, gave him some advice on how to handle the fall. Seemed to handle the last practice jump we did pretty well, though whether that was because of what I said or whether it was because he's finally getting used to the falling sensation, I couldn't tell you."

_"Could have been a combination of the two,"_ his mom suggested, _"Though I'm sure your words helped a lot."_

Moss made a noncommittal noise. "Maybe."

_"So, how's your friend? Harry?"_

Moss couldn't help but snort. "Just call him Ferguson, mom. Or Fergs. No one really calls him Harry."

_"Ferguson, then,"_ his mom corrected herself. _"How is he? Are you two still able to talk?"_

Moss nodded. "Well, we finally started getting our replacements at the beginning of the year. Because of that, Ferguson was finally allowed to transfer out. Got moved over to the 171st Engineer Brigade, which is garrisoned practically down the street, so we pretty much still see each other every day."

As he spoke, Moss couldn't help but feel his cheeks start to burn in embarrassment at the memory. For some reason, when Ferguson had said he was transferring out of the Airborne, Moss had assumed that meant he was getting transferred to a unit stationed on an entirely different colony. When the day Ferguson was to leave finally arrived, Moss had given Ferguson a heartfelt speech about how thankful he was for all of Ferguson's help, and how much he was going to miss him, only to be informed that Ferguson was transferring to a unit that was literally only thirty minutes away, and that Ferguson was still going to be living in the area. At the time, Moss had been more relieved than embarrassed by his mistake, but at this point Moss could only look back and cringe at how foolish he'd been.

Moss' mom made a sort of "hmm" noise to show she was still listening, but he could tell she really wanted to ask something else, and it wasn't hard to figure out what it was.

_"And how are _**you**_ doing?"_ she finally said.

There it was.

Moss opened his mouth, but then paused. His reflex response was to simply say that "he was fine," however one thing Doctor Grant had been urging him to do was be honest with himself, if no one else. And truth be told, Moss was not fine. Sleep was still hard to come by at nights as Moss was plagued by dreams and memories of people long past. Some nights, Moss would just lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, watching as the minutes tick by on the clock. Other nights, he'd just give it up as a bad job and head over to the armory and start cleaning the weapons stored there, just to distract himself. Fortunately, the new company armorer didn't seem to mind and in fact, seemed to understand what Moss was going through.

Of course, those were the nights. Sometimes the days weren't that much better. There were the days where it was a battle just to convince himself to get out of bed and go do the simple stuff like get up, get dress, go brush his teeth, eat breakfast, etc. Those days were the worst as his emotions were usually all out of whack, and Moss had found it was just best to isolate himself, to avoid leaping down someone's throat just for breathing too loudly.

Moss' next response to mom was going to be that he was "getting there," but just as he was about to say that, Moss stopped. That wasn't accurate either because, honestly, Moss had no idea where he was "getting to." Things would never be the same. Moss could never go back to being the kid he once was. As Ferguson had once pointed out, his memories and experiences were now a part of him, and Moss simply wouldn't be able to forget them. Nor, would he have wanted to, as his memory of the friends he had lost were the only things keeping them still alive, in a sense.

"I'm working on it," Moss finally said. And it was true. He was attending his weekly sessions with Grant and although he hadn't been able to summon up the courage to go to those group therapy sessions Grant had suggested, Moss at least had Ferguson to talk to.

Plus, it helped considerably that the brigade's roster was finally getting filled, meaning training was starting back up. It gave Moss something else to focus on, a goal to strive to, and helped keep Moss' mind occupied.

His mom sighed.

_"I just wish you were back home,"_ she said.

"I know mom, I know," Moss said sympathetically. "But this is something I have to do."

_"I know,"_ his mom quietly admitted.

For a moment, the two of them just stood there, silent, lost in their own thoughts.

Moss finally sighed. "Hey, I got to go mom."

_"Okay. Take care of yourself."_

"I'll try," Moss truthfully replied.

_"Love you!"_

"Love you too mom. Bye."

Without another word, Moss terminated the connection. Letting out another sigh, Moss reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of gum. Tearing it open, he frowned. Man, he really needed to step up his game and stop buy this crappy stuff. The flavor never seemed to last longer than a couple of minutes.

"Excuse me?"

It took just about everything Moss had to avoid jumping. Whirling around, he instantly spotted a small, thin, very timid-looking, young lady standing there on the sidewalk behind him.

"Yes, ma'am?" Moss politely asked.

"Are you... are you Sergeant Moss Shen?"

Moss warily stared at her.

"Yes..." he said slowly, now on guard. His wounds from the last time someone had recognized him out of the blue were finally healing, and the last thing he needed was another beating. And though this lady seemed hardly capable of hurting a fly, Moss had learned a long time ago appearances could be deceiving. "Can I help you with something?"

The lady let out a small cough.

"I'm sorry," she quietly said. "I don't mean to approach you like this but... well, my name is Kasey Varejão."

Moss waited a moment to see if that name meant anything to him. It did not.

"I'm sorry, but I don't know who that is," Moss apologetically admitted.

The young lady looked a bit disappointed, though she hid it well.

"It's alright," she assured him. "I didn't... I didn't really think you would. I am... was... a friend of Job Griffin."

Moss instantly felt a wave of sadness of the mention of one of the soldier's he had lost on Actium, though the pain wasn't as bad as it had been a few months ago.

Instead of focusing on the pain though, Moss stared at the lady, Kasey, standing in front of him and instantly felt a wave of pity at the slightly hopeful look on her face.

"You are? I'm sorry, I didn't realize Griffin had any family." Moss paused, and regarded her a bit more closely. "Or a... girlfriend?"

"He didn't. And I'm not his... that is to say, was not... or rather, I was never..." Kasey stammered, before stopping and taking a deep breath.

"I was Griffin's lawyer," she explained. "I helped defend Griffin against a series of criminal charges that had been leveled against him. Afterwards, he gave me some information that helped me out of a bad situation and in return, I... I was helping Griffin with other stuff. Like his paycheck, his deployment orders, and trying to help him with the rest of his education. I'm not... sure how he felt about me, but I'd like to think we were... well, friends at least."

Moss felt his heart freezing as Kasey spoke. Did she not...? If she wasn't Griffin's next of kin, was she never told that...?

"Miss... Varejão, was it?" Moss gently began. "I'm sorry, I don't really know how to say this but..."

"Oh, I know Griffin died several months ago," she assured him, and Moss couldn't help but mentally sigh in relief. Death notification was one job in the military he _never_ wanted to do. "That's not... why I'm here. I'm here because... well, to be honest, I'm not really sure _why_ I'm here."

Kasey sighed. "I... I know Griffin died last year in May during the Battle of Actium, only, I can't seem to find out _how_ he died, only that he did. I heard that... you were his squad leader, and possibly the last person to see him alive so..."

Kasey trailed off as she seemed to struggle with the next part.

"You were hoping I could tell you," Moss gently finished for her.

"YES! I mean, no! I mean..." Kasey hesitated, and Moss could tell she was really struggling, not just with her words, but with her emotions.

"I don't really know why I need to know," she admitted. "Rationally, I know it's not going to change anything. Griffin's not coming back, no matter how much I wish and knowing the details will just... hurt me. But... I just need..." she trailed off once more before letting out a bitter laugh. "I'm sorry, I know I'm not making a lot of sense. And this... well, I'm sorry to have disturbed you. I should go."

"No, no! I understand, and it's alright!" Moss was quick to assure her, even as he thought about what he wanted to say. Out of all the men he had lost on Actium, Griffin was perhaps the least difficult to talk about.

But that didn't mean it was easy for Moss.

"Griffin... was perhaps one of the most unusual soldiers I had ever served with," Moss began. "He was by far the most carefree person I had ever met. He had seen, done, and experienced just about everything, so nothing really phased him."

"Conversely, I could tell that he never really had much of a childhood," Moss allowed. "He was friendly and easy enough to get along with, but he always kept everyone at an arm's length. So, I never really knew how he felt about me or anyone else in the squad."

"Then that day occurred. The day he was killed in action."

"We were part of a larger group of soldiers that was participating in a 'smash and burn' operation. It was the first day of the battle and the Covenant had only made landfall a few hours earlier, so everything was in chaos. I guess maybe that's why things happened the way it happened."

"I guess... I wasn't paying enough attention," Moss admitted. "Because I didn't see that Grunt with the fuel rod cannon until after he fired. All I remember is seeing that ball of green fire headed straight for me and I remember thinking, 'Well. This is it.'"

"But then Griffin happened."

Moss paused as he struggled to recount the next part. And, over how truthful he wanted to be.

"I don't...know if Griffin was even consciously aware of what he was about to do next," Moss finally said. "All I know is, one moment I'm watching this ball of fire coming towards me, and then the next, Griffin is grabbing hold of me, shielding me with his own body."

Moss gave Kasey a solemn stare. "I should have died that day, but I didn't. Because Griffin took all the shrapnel that should have been for me. I know it sounds cliché but, Griffin saved my life that day."

"Now, I don't really know if he did that on purpose or not," Moss allowed. "Maybe he tripped or something. But I'd like to think that he did. That he was trying to save my life. Because he was my friend and I, his."

Moss fell silent, suddenly feeling like he had just run a lap around the track. He glanced up at Kasey to see how she was reacting, only to see her burst into tears.

"Sorry, sorry!" she exclaimed and started to turn away but, without really thinking, Moss grabbed her and pulled her into a hug.

He could feel her stiffening at first, but then she slowly relax, allowing her tears to fall freely.

"Thank you," he heard her say. "Kids who grow up like Griffin did, they don't have much. No money, no family, no prospects. All they usually have are each other. So thank you, for being his friend."

Moss didn't say a word. All he did was hold her tighter as she continued to cry. And as she did, Moss could feel the corners of his eyes start to prickle as tears started to well up in his own eyes. But unlike the last few months where he'd been fighting the sensation, Moss finally allowed himself to give in.

As they stood there, two complete strangers bonded by a single connection, Moss allowed himself to finally cry. He cried for all the friends he had lost: Stohl the Mole, Smelley Noelley, Quintus Vox, Corporal Shin, Anton Bashir, Job Griffin, Clifton Roer, Lisbeth Norén, Fish -

\- and Pip.

But most of all -

Moss cried for the pieces of his soul he left behind when the members of his family were lost, one by one.

* * *

1\. Kasey Varejão is intended to be the same lawyer (or "lawster) from the _Missing in Action_ one-shot: _You're in the Army Now!_ She was never named in that story, as Griffin hadn't known it at the time, but I thought it would be interesting to have her show up in this story, expand on her character just a bit.

2\. Anton Bashir: he hasn't been mentioned in this story, but he's from the prologue of _Missing in Action_ (he's the one who gets killed by the mine.) His first name was never used.

I debated whether I wanted to include his name in this list as I doubt anyone would have remembered him, but I figured Moss would, hence his inclusion.

3\. Job Griffin, Clifton Roer, and Lisbeth Norén: these three characters were only mentioned once in passing during the course of this story, but they're all characters from _Missing in Action_. Griffin was killed in action during chapter 7, Roer actually went MIA during chapter 9 (with his ultimate fate discussed in chapter 16), and Norén was killed in chapter 12.

Ending Notes

Well, that's it for _Last Round_! Thank you everyone who stopped by and gave this story a read, and especially those who left reviews! I hope you guys enjoyed! If anyone is curious, my other story, _Last Man Standing_, is supposed to be the sequel to this one, despite having been written years ago (as back then I found it easier to write one-shots than stories with multiple chapters.) Taking place two years after _Last Round_ during the Battle of Skopje, it depicts Moss' last few days in the battlefield as a paratrooper.

As obviously that story was written long before I had the details of both _Missing in Action_ and _Last Round_ fully fleshed out, there aren't a lot of references to these stories. I may give it a bit of a facelift in the next few months, but I haven't decided yet.

Until next time: farewell.


End file.
